


Love Isn't Enough

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/F, Heart Attack, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Post-Break Up, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:28:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28576749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: "It was just one of a thousand identical moments that I never paid attention to because I was always too busy doing, thinking, living, that I never stopped to notice that that was happiness. Right there. And it didn't matter, it didn't matter if I got another thousand moments like that or if it never happened again, because right then, I didn't want that moment to ever end."
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 395
Kudos: 441





	1. Home Sweet Home

**Author's Note:**

> Today is two years since I started writing my first DWP fic, so I'm celebrating with a new, multi-chapter one.
> 
> This is a sequel no one asked for to ["Apparently, I'm Your Emergency Contact."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21434530/chapters/51103561#workskin) from my That's What She Said series. The original is only a little drabble less than 300 words long, but if you haven't read it, the gist is Andy and Miranda are broken up, Miranda has a heart attack, and Andy shows up at the hospital.
> 
> My main source of research for this one was actually my (very alive) dad, who had a heart attack when I was a kid and demanded I prefaced this story with "In memory of my beloved father."

"Alright, Miranda, how are we doing today?"

" _I'm_ doing fine; I don't know about you."

Stopping at the entrance to the room, Dr. Sanghvi chuckles to herself and looks up from her tablet. "Well, I'm glad to hear that because we'd like to discharge you tomorrow."

"Took you long enough," Miranda mutters venomously. She's spent the last week and a half in this bed; if she never has to smell the scent of disinfectant or hospital laundry detergent again, it will be too soon.

"Now," Dr. Sanghvi proceeds authoritatively as if she hasn't spoken, tapping on the screen before her, "is there someone living with you?"

Miranda's eyes momentarily flash before narrowing into dark, threatening slits. "I don't see how that is any of your business," she hisses coldly.

Looking back up, the doctor looks momentarily taken aback before reassuming her bussinesslike attitude. "I'm just asking because someone needs to be around to help you," she states matter-of-factly. "You can't be alone."

At that, Miranda bristles further. "I don't need--"

"I'll be staying with her." In the visitor's chair, Andrea Sachs puts down her iPad, giving Dr. Sanghvi a look of assuredness and finality while Miranda glowers from the bed, a fiery stare burning into the side of Andrea's head.

"Great," Dr. Sanghvi says cheerfully and types something on her tablet. Her next words she directs at Andrea: "She'll need to stay home for a month: she can work from there, but not too much; no stressful or strenuous activity--"

"That is preposterous," Miranda exclaims, temporarily distracted from Andrea's even more preposterous offer. "I run a magazine. You can't possibly expect me to stay away for a whole month; I've already been gone long enough."

"That's the deal, Miranda, if you ever want to leave this hospital," Dr. Sanghvi replies, undeterred. It's unfortunate, Miranda has mused to herself on more than one occasion throughout her long stay, that her influence and resultant scaring techniques don't extend far enough to intimidate the medical staff assigned to her into submission.

Returning her attention to the tablet, Dr. Sanghvi continues, "Unfortunately, we need the bed and you need to rest." In the same breath, she turns to Andrea and adds, "Will you come outside with me so we can go over everything?"

"Sure." Andrea rises from her seat, following the woman outside. Back in the bed, Miranda watches them go, feeling weak, tired, and absolutely helpless.

In her mind's eye, numbers begin to form, stray digits floating aimlessly across a black backdrop, dissolving into nothingness to clear the way for others. Nine is the number of board members waiting to be assured that their flagship publication's leader doesn't need to be replaced; dozens is the estimate of people standing in line to seize the opportunity and steal her throne. One is the trusted fashion director she's appointed to the temporary role, overseeing matters at the office. Millions of dollars will be lost if the current _Runway_ issue suffers this unexpected hindrance. For the next thirty days, she'll be confined to her house and the limited productivity options it has to offer, imprisoned for crimes she didn't commit. On two respective continents, two twins are anxious about the state of their mother's health. It has been ten days since her heart gave out late at night, the Book falling from her clammy hands and landing on the marble floor with an echoing thump, her fingers digging into the edge of the nearest table while she tried to catch her breath.

Three years ago, Andrea Sachs walked out on seven years of a life shared together; ten days ago, she showed up in Miranda's hospital room and has refused to leave ever since.

Her presence, so far, has been little more than a nuisance. She's been arriving every morning, leaving at the culmination of visiting hours, and conducting her business from Miranda's bedside. Throughout all of this, she's milked every doctor and nurse dry of details and updates on Miranda's condition, written down all the recovery instructions provided to her, and made sure to boss everyone--Miranda included--around to her heart's content. If Miranda wills herself, she can pretend no time has lapsed since that behavior was a given and Andrea was the doting significant other devoting all her time and energy to taking care of her ailed beloved--she's done a remarkable job seamlessly slipping back into that role.

Some time in the last ten days, the residual anger and hurt of their parting has dissipated in the wake of the new, perspective-casting circumstance and a sense of normalcy has blanketed them in its stead. There is a certain element of comfort to it: the ease with which they can pick up where they left off despite the passage of time and consequential estrangement, their old familiarity with one another overshadowing the natural awkwardness of the reacquaintance. But for all the warmth and appreciation Miranda initially felt at Andrea's return to her life, she now wishes to be left alone.

There is something so degrading and diminishing about living this experience. She feels old. She feels frail and vulnerable and humiliated that the mighty Miranda Priestly could be so easily taken down by a heart attack, her own body turning on her. She doesn't want an audience for that, doesn't want indifferent doctors treating her like a faceless case and dictating how she should live her life and making her feel _small_ , and she doesn't want the person who administered the first blow to her heart to waltz back into her life with a heroine complex and seize control. This is not how Andrea Sachs was supposed to come back to her.

"Hey," Andrea captures her distracted attention from the doorway, alerting her to her return, "this is good news. You're going home."

"What difference does it make?" Miranda says in resignation. "I may as well stay here if I'm not allowed to live my life either way."

"That's not what she said," argues Andrea, coming closer. "She just wants you to get all the rest you need so your heart can recharge and be strong enough for you to show everyone that a little heart attack couldn't possibly shake Miranda Priestly." She finishes with a smirk and gleaming eyes that irritate Miranda even more.

"Please." She rolls her eyes, readjusting the pillows behind her back. "Nothing's going to be the same from now on and you know that and that annoying doctor knows that, so stop sugarcoating everything for me like I'm a child. If I list every restriction I'm going to have to live with, I might have another heart attack."

"That's not funny," Andrea replies instantly, soberly.

"You're telling me."

Sitting down in her chair, she proceeds to watch Miranda's face for an uncomfortably long while before speaking again, "I know it's all really scary and unknown right now, but I promise with time--"

"Andrea, I swear to god, if you give me that patronizing speech again, I'll put you in the room next door," Miranda snaps and on the incessantly beeping machine by her bed, the slow, steady noise spikes up in warning, drawing two sets of eyes to the monitor.

"You shouldn't get angry," Andrea comments flatly, her face disapproving.

"Then don't anger me," Miranda retorts as the machine--as does her heart rate--calms down. "Why are you still here? How many times do I have to tell you to go home?"

"I will in a little bit." Andrea nods, then quickly shakes her head. "I mean, your home."

Eyes widening, Miranda turns to her. "Excuse me?"

"Well, I need to prepare everything for tomorrow and, of course, get my-- well, you know, get my things there--"

"No," she interrupts definitively, shutting her down with that one syllable. Her earlier shock at Andrea's statement was enough to delay her reaction, but now is as good a time as any to address it.

"What?"

"You are not staying with me. I don't need you to stay with me."

"Well... you heard what Dr. Sanghvi said: you can't be alone."

Pushing down the demeaning effect of that statement, Miranda insists, "Then I'll get someone else. Consider yourself off the hook."

"Okay," says Andrea, but her tone is far from acquiescing; it's challenging. "Who?"

"That is no longer your concern."

Andrea persists nevertheless. "Your... overworked assistants?" she drawls knowingly. "The housekeeper? Are you going to pay someone?"

"I will get," Miranda grinds out, jaw clenched, "someone."

"And if you ask, will anybody want to?" she continues, and as soon as the question is out, it spreads through the room and envelopes it with a charged, tense silence. Because as far as personal relationships go, Miranda's are scarce, and those she manages to form, she can never keep, present company included. The rest of the world she's alienated by sowing fear and resentment in every person she's ever interacted with and the only time a supposed equal is nice to her is when they want something. It's not lost on her that for all the power she possesses and lavish lifestyle she leads, there's very little fulfillment in the way of human connection and a lot of loneliness. And in every failed relationship, there's always one common denominator. It's not lost on Andrea either.

"Sorry. Low blow," murmurs Andrea, contrite.

"You think?"

"Well..." She clears her throat and seems to be scrambling back onto firmer ground. "Whether you want it or not, I'm here now so you may as well use me. I'll swing by the pharmacy on the way out of here to get all your meds and I need a key to the house. I'll also need to contact the housekeeper--is it still Nadia? I don't think I have her number anymore, I need you to give it to me..." She proceeds to retrieve her iPad while listing off future tasks in a businesslike manner, detached of any emotion, and Miranda is too tired to keep arguing.

* * *

**Day 1**

  
In the early afternoon, the key turns in the lock of Miranda's front door, which opens into a colorful, fragrant hallway. Every which way Miranda looks, there's a different bouquet in a different vase, perching on tables and framing the hall with their blooming greeting. It is clear that her near-death experience has stirred in peers and colleagues the natural desire to suck up, her heart attack a great opportunity for others to promote their own agendas through fake acts of kindness. But what Marc Jacobs doesn't know is that his carnations clash with her décor, and Annie Leibovitz doesn't know that Miranda hates freesias, and Dean Baquet should know better than to send any flower the color of mustard.

"Get rid of all of these today," Miranda instructs before the front door has clicked shut. If Andrea is so eager to help, then she may as well take advantage of it.

Clacking loudly toward the closet, she freezes when Andrea reaches for her. "Let me help you with--"

"I can hang--" she starts irritably, but falters at the sensation of fingers on the back of her neck, spreading tingly goosebumps across the skin. "--my own jacket," she finishes weakly and can't help but purse her lips around a smirk at Andrea's resultant, sheepish look.

"You wanna take your shoes off?" Andrea asks skeptically while Miranda slides the garment onto a hanger, suspended four inches above the ground.

"No."

Then she's back in the hallway, face to face with Andrea, who begins to fidget. Neither of them has any pressing matters to attend to, or any at all. Miranda's calendar is starkly clear for the next thirty days; it makes a lot of room to stand aimlessly and watch Andrea bite her lip and tug on her fingers and dart her eyes around the space that was once her house. And finally, she smiles awkwardly and chirps ironically, "Home sweet home."

"Hm," Miranda hums wryly.

"God, the last time I was here..." She raises her gaze to the ceiling, as if trying to calculate. "Well, apart from yesterday--"

"Three years ago," Miranda does the math for her, needing no time to think. "When you came to pick up the rest of your things while I was at work."

Andrea smiles again, and there's no mistaking the embarrassed guilt behind the expression. "You knew about that."

"Of course I did."

There's that awkwardness again, the one they managed to sidestep in the hospital. Here, however, there's no medical personnel, no commotion, no sense of alternate reality to distract them from the reality of their situation; there's only what used to be their home and seven years of memories to surround them. It aids in reminding Miranda of the absurdity in their feigned normalcy.

"Well," she begins with an intake of breath, "you know where the guest rooms are, and everything else, so..."

"Yeah." Andrea nods, then follows her with her gaze as she heads toward the staircase. "Do you want me to help you--"

"No."

* * *

"What's that? I don't want that," Miranda determines the moment she enters the kitchen. The sun has begun to set over Manhattan, its golden hues breaching their way through the shelters of the kitchen window and borrowing their striped shape to paint along Andrea's body while she stands at the island stove, flipping two seared salmons in a pan.

"Too bad because it's on your new menu from now on," she replies unflappably as Miranda makes a beeline for the fridge. "If you're looking for the pork chops, I threw them away."

"Excuse me?" demands Miranda, slamming the freezer door shut and directing a seething glare at a nonchalant Andrea. "And who exactly gave you permission to do that?"

"Your doctor," she answers plainly. "Sit down, dinner's almost ready."

"I don't need a live-in nurse," Miranda grumbles, but does as she's told nonetheless.

Turning off the stove, Andrea gathers each piece of fish with a spatula and plates them respectively. "I'm not here as a nurse. I'm here as--" she pauses, which prompts Miranda to look up. On her face, the struggle to find the right title is painted clearly, and perhaps in that moment she tries to explain to herself as well what role she's filling and why she's there to begin with. The term "significant other" seems to pulsate at the tips of both their tongues. They're both thinking it: any other person would spend this month at home with a supportive family and a loving partner; Miranda has neither: her children have flown out of the nest and Andrea, no matter how tightly she squints or how hard she tries to blur the curves of the picture, is not her loving partner.

"I'm just here," Andrea finishes softly, turning away from the kitchen island to place the plates on the table. Then she returns to the island and, much like a nurse, picks up a blue, compartmentalized box, which she presents to Miranda.

"Now," she starts to explain, sitting down, "this is for every day of the week: morning, noon, evening, and before bed. I've already arranged all of this week--see?" She opens the lid over the "eve" compartment in their current day column to reveal several pills in different shapes and colors, all of which Miranda is expected to swallow with her dinner of unwanted salmon. "And you have to take them all with food, besides the 'bed' ones--"

The plastic slides roughly against the surface of the table as Miranda shoves it away, the multitude of pills inside rattling at the disturbance. Wordlessly, she pulls her plate to her, grabs her fork and knife, and cuts into the fish. Mercifully, dinner proceeds silently.

* * *

Her first shower back home is far preferable to the ones she had to endure during her hospitalization: it's familiar and comforting, granting a momentary sense, untrue as it may be, that everything will be okay after all.

As the hot water pours freely over her naked body, scalding it red and doubling her heartbeat, reminding her heart that it's still functioning, she tries to forget all the things that aren't okay for just a few minutes of serenity. She ignores the fact that another person is co-running her magazine, the looming threat of being tossed to the curb every day she's trapped away with a declining health; she pushes to the back of her mind thoughts of the toll this must take on her daughters, only starting their adult lives and feeling so far away and helpless; she shoos the terrifying notion that she has become old and sick overnight, a fragil woman who has to rely for the rest of her life on medication, be cautious of every action, and live in fear of the next surprise event to take her out.

She rejects all of those thoughts and instead thinks of the woman one floor up, getting ready to sleep in one of the guest rooms, possibly showering just like Miranda at that very moment. It has been three years since Andrea stepped foot in this house, three years since they had a conversation, three years since Miranda lost the only person she ever wanted to keep.

A lot of bad things are happening, and plenty more is bound to happen. Miranda's life has been turned upside down without her permission and she's angry and sad and terrified of the unknown, but for the moment, Andrea is home, and she chooses to think about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 coming soon!
> 
> Please take a second to tell me what you think, I love to hear from you guys.


	2. Unwelcome Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who asked, I linked the original fic in last chapter's notes.

There is a hemorrhage on her inner thigh. No, that isn't right. A hemorrhage is what you get when you bump your knee against the side of a table or bang your elbow on the doorpost while walking into a room: it's a tiny, barely-there bruise that morphs from bluish purple to yellow and disappears in no time. The one she has on her thigh is violently dark with about every color on the spectrum, as big as Alaska, and obscenely horrid. It is something straight out of a horror movie and far from the perfect picture the editor-in-chief of the world's premiere fashion magazine should present.

There is a similar one on her arm, thankfully where a mere blouse sleeve can hide the morbidity, both collaterals from her catheterization, various blood tests, and blood thinners and visual reminders of that awful night.

Reaching down, Miranda parts her thighs and lightly touches the damaged area, running her fingertips down the length of it. It doesn't hurt, but the sight alone makes her stomach flip.

Startled out of her thoughts, she jumps at the knock that comes on the door and instantly covers herself with her robe, pulling it tight against her body. "What?" she snaps from her perch on the side of her bed and watches as the door tentatively opens.

Behind it, Andrea gradually appears in a stylish, button-down pajama set, visibly debating whether to cross the threshold before her attention is captured by the room she's revealed to herself and promptly stolen. Her eyes wander around, drinking eyefuls of every inch and corner. They travel from the bed Miranda's sitting on to the nightstands on either side, one of which used to hold her books and earphones and notes she'd scribble down before bed. Her gaze finds the framed pictures and art works on the walls, the ones she must recognize and the ones Miranda used to replace those she'd taken with her. There are no longer objects belonging to her on the dressers and shelves or inside drawers, her clothes are not in the closet, much like her hair and facial products have been removed from the bathroom. The room looks quite the same as it did ever since its first decoration, main fixtures like the bed and cabinets maintaining a permanent appearance, but to Andrea's eyes, it can't be hard to spot all the changes caused by her absence.

"Did you want something?" Miranda asks, but her tone is not quite as curt as before.

"Um..." Andrea shakes her head and blinks back into the moment, meeting Miranda's eyes. "Just wanted to check in and see if you need anything before I head to bed." The one in the guest room, which Miranda won't be sharing with her. She can count on one hand the amount of times in seven years that they spent a night in the same house but not the same bed, and for the upcoming month Miranda simply doesn't have enough hands.

"I don't," she replies, her voice much softer than she intended. But even after her assurance, Andrea still doesn't leave. "Everything okay for you?"

"Yeah. Great." She nods her confirmation, but her eyes start scanning the room again. "You've made some changes," she notes; Miranda tries not to feel guilty. This was her house before Andrea and it has been for the three years following their separation. She owes no one an explanation for replacing the table in the sitting area or getting new bed sheets. But then this is the first time in many years that Andrea has stood in the entrance of this room and it wasn't _her_ room.

Giving Miranda a small smile, she adds, "I like it. It looks good."

"I'm glad you approve," Miranda finds herself quipping, which makes Andrea's smile widen.

"Well... I'll leave you to it, you should get some sleep," she says, stepping back, her hand on the doorknob. "Goodnight, Miranda."

"Goodnight, Andrea," replies Miranda and watches her disappear behind the door before it clicks into place. For the next few minutes, she keeps staring at the closed door.

It's going to be a long, long month.

* * *

**Day 2**

  
It was a long, long night. Sleep evaded her for most of it, despite every valiant effort to escape reality for just a few hours of peace. Gripped by dread and fear, she tossed and turned, feeling her control slipping further away from her with every sleepless hour that passed. Evey mild pain, every squeeze in her chest might have been warning of a second heart attack, which her doctor had so graciously informed her was a real possibility. And on top of all that, her ex was sleeping just a floor away.

Come morning, she lies defeatedly on her back, tired eyes staring up at the blank ceiling. It was much simpler during her hospital stay: she got tired, she went to sleep, surrounded by professionals who'd be able to detect the earliest signs of a problem and immediately treat it. Right here, right now, she feels helpless, and despite her new roommate, she is completely alone.

* * *

"Good morning." Andrea smiles from behind the kitchen island while her hand methodically beats eggs in a bowl. "How did you sleep?"

"Fine," Miranda answers mildly, but the question prompts her body to remind her how exhausted it still is. Catching sight of a steaming mug beside the bowl, she inquires, "Is there coffee?"

"I can make you some," Andrea says and quickly abandons the eggs in favor of the coffee maker on the counter and the pod stand next to it, "but it'll be the only one of the day; your doctor said you should cut back on caffeine. I wouldn't be surprised if that was the culprit. Kazaar, right?" Pulling out a black pod, she turns to see the irritation Miranda barely keeps off her face and smiles again.

"I remember that shirt," she changes the subject, starting the machine. Miranda's shirt is a thin, grey one that clings to her skin yet remains loose on the body at the same time. Despite the long sleeves, it's not too warm in the gradually heating weather of the season, the material light and both her shoulders left exposed, and paired with flowy, white, pinstriped pants, it is both comfortable and stylish to wear around the house. And it was a present from Andrea.

"Yes, well." She proceeds further into the kitchen, taking her seat at the table as the coffee maker whirrs loudly in the background. "Not all of your picks were terrible."

Not taking offense, Andrea throws another smile over her shoulder and returns to the eggs. "Breakfast will be ready soon."

"You know I like my eggs with--"

"With terragon and chervil, I know."

Clearing the dishes off the table some time later, Andrea nods toward the blue box in the corner. "Don't forget your meds."

"I wouldn't dare to," Miranda grouses, pulling the box to her.

"And I think later you should go for a little walk outside--Dr. Sanghvi said it's good for you."

Wincing at the intrusion of pills in her throat, Miranda swallows another gulp of water and frowns. "Yes, the paparazzi would love that." A sad, sickly woman taking a midday stroll down the street. She may as well hold a cane and wear _Skechers_.

Andrea, however, is undeterred. "Or around the house, that's good, too. And after you're done, I'll check your blood pressure."

"Plenty to look forward to, then," Miranda sasses. "Don't you have a job to do?" The "leave me alone" part is unspoken but very heavily implied.

"It's freelance." Andrea shrugs. "I have one piece left to go over and it's not due until tomorrow, I can finish it later."

"What about _The New Yorker_? I haven't seen your name there in a while."

"That's," Andrea drawls, "because I no longer work there," and turns to face her, leaning against the kitchen island.

"Since when?" demands Miranda, aghast.

"About a year and a half ago." She shrugs once more, nonchalantly.

"Did they fire you?"

At once, her shoulders square up, her eyes narrowing as if bracing for attack. "Why are you assuming _they_ fired _me_?"

"I'm just asking."

Coming to join her at the table again, Andrea admits, "David and I both decided we weren't on the same page anymore. He wanted me to write things I didn't want to write and I wanted to write things he didn't want to publish. So..."

"A very amicable breakup," Miranda remarks.

"Yeah." Her lips quirk in something that is almost a smile. "Anyway, I decided I should just stick to freelance. I like writing on my own terms."

"Well, on that note," Miranda shifts the conversation and slowly rises from her seat, Andrea's eyes following in barely masked concern, "I should get started on _my_ work."

"Take it easy," Andrea pleads, but it's more of a warning than anything else. Passing by, Miranda emits a disgruntled sound as she leaves the kitchen.

* * *

"Miranda."

"Hmm?"

"Your walk."

"Not right now," Miranda mutters, scrolling down on her laptop screen.

"Then when?"

"I'm busy, Andrea. I do not take walks in the middle of the work day," she says, her tone adopting an edge of irritation.

"Well, that's the beauty of working from home," chirps Andrea, whose smile feels more like an insult than comfort, "you can do whatever you want."

"I will walk"--Miranda lifts her eyes from her computer for one second and meets Andrea's--"when I feel up to walking."

But Andrea, as is her custom, is as stubborn as ever. "You really shouldn't be sitting for too long. You need to get your blood circulating."

"Thank you, Dr. Sachs," Miranda replies sarcastically.

"How about now?" she persists and Miranda removes her finger from the laptop's touchpad and glares impatiently.

"Am I running out of time for my scheduled half-hour walk in the yard?" she snaps, her gaze scolding. "Tell me when I have to leave my work and go back to my cell."

Walking further into the study, Andrea's expression softens, but doesn't show signs of relenting any time soon. "I know this is a difficult adjustment to make--"

"Do you."

"I'm just trying to help."

"Nobody asked you to; _you_ appointed yourself my personal caretaker."

"Yes, I did, and now I'm gonna make sure you get better." Face set in determination, she turns back toward the door. "So you have five minutes to wrap up whatever you're doing and take a break."

"I'm pretty sure as my caretaker you're also supposed to make sure I stay _calm_ and not get on my nerves," Miranda spews, making her halt her step.

"Oh,"--Andrea turns her head and smiles a wry smile--"I never managed to do that." In response, against every protesting order from her brain, Miranda's facial muscles return the smile, and in an instant, a cloud seems to have lifted and ever so slightly lightened the atmosphere. It is very reminiscent of days past.

"If you want, I can walk with you," Andrea throws over her shoulder on the way out.

Miranda can't help the retort on the tip of her tongue: "Are you worried I'll forget the way around my own house?"

The second it takes Andrea to pause is all it takes for her to absorb the comment. "Okay." She nods with an eye roll and proceeds out of the room.

Miranda calls after her, "I might need you to hold my hand on the stairs."

"That's hilarious," Andrea's disemodied voice calls from the hall.

"Or keep me from falling off the carpet."

"I'm not listening anymore."

Deciding that enough is enough, Miranda chuckles to herself, but left alone with the room's silence and her thoughts, her face quickly sombers.

Nevertheless, the rest of the day passes more smoothly, and by the time evening falls and the townhouse is shrouded in shadows, Miranda has had her walk, completed her reduced workload for the day, and managed to calm down, as much as the circumstances would allow.

Sitting at the kitchen table, she rests her chin in her palm and looks on as Andrea adds finishing touches of spices that don't include salt to a bubbling pot of white, skinless chicken. The idea is appalling, the sight itself is less than appetizing, but somehow she's made the dish smell pleasant enough to make Miranda's stomach quietly grumble.

"You've gotten better," she observes with a barely concealed smile at the expertise with which Andrea moves over the pot, handling the food with sure hands.

Even while showing her her back, she can hear the smile in Andrea's voice. "Yeah, I had to. It was either that or going bankrupt from food deliveries."

" _Wok City_?" she inquires knowingly.

"You know it," Andrea replies, turning off the stove. With gloved hands, she lifts the pot by its handles and carefully turns around.

"You've always had an affinity for cheap things," Miranda sighs and makes room on the table for her to situate the steaming chicken on a placemat in the center, between a bowl of green beans and one with whole-grain rice.

"Hey, I dated you, didn't I?" Andrea counters with a hearty laugh before tossing the mittens back on the kitchen island and sitting down. "Expensive doesn't always equal good quality."

"Well," Miranda says and wrinkles her nose at the sight of the depressing, colorless meal before her. Andrea has also added potatoes and carrots to the stew, their pieces floating in the dark sauce, but it does nothing to lessen Miranda's desire to trade it in for a juicy steak. "I can tell you right now that whatever you paid for this chicken, you didn't get your money's worth."

"You haven't even tried it," Andrea argues calmly, taking Miranda's plate to fill it with the different dishes on the table. An underwhelming chicken thigh lands in the corner, its brownish sauce seeping into the rice. "It's regular chicken, just no skin."

"The skin is the best part," Miranda states petulantly while unwillingly accepting her plate back.

"Your heart would beg to differ." After serving herself, Andrea glances at Miranda's still untouched food and then at her sour face. "It's good, I promise. Look, I'm eating the same thing." To drive her point home, she cuts a piece off her drumstick, pops it into her mouth, and chews with a satisfied smile.

"What a martyr." Miranda rolls her eyes and slices into her own chicken.

After that, conversation veers to other topics, including Andrea's current article and the fact that she _has_ finally learned to cook (because, as reluctant as Miranda is to admit it, the meal she's concocted _is_ quite good)--anything but Miranda's health. By the time she chokes down the second serving of chicken Andrea's imposed on her without question, they've turned to the subject of Miranda's job.

"I bet all the girls are wearing flats around the office now that you're gone," Andrea teases with a mean, little gleam in her eye. Grumbling, Miranda grabs her water glass and takes a sip, choosing not to dignify the comment with a response.

"No makeup," Andrea continues gleefully, "food and drinks on the desks. You're gonna come back to find out _Runway_ 's turned into _Ladies' Home Journal_."

"Don't you dare." Her eyes grow threateningly. Andrea's own joke makes her laugh, and if Miranda decided to indulge her, she could join in, but all the same, the concern of her baby deteriorating in her absence is still very real. She's put Jan in charge of the office, the only person who's ever come close to the standards her predecessor had set before moving on from _Runway_ , and made sure to take on as much as possible while working remotely--for all intents and purposes, she's still the sole editor-in-chief of the magazine--but there's no refuting that this little stunt her heart has decided to pull is going to set back her ability to do her job to the level of perfection she's used to.

Andrea must sense the shift in her mood because she stops laughing and gives her, instead, a sympathetic look. " _Runway_ 's gonna be fine," she assures as if its future it up to her. "The only thing you should worry about right now is recovering."

At her transition back into caretaker--and its accompanying reminder that much of Miranda's life is currently out of her control--the recent state of constant agitation returns to Miranda in a flash and she purses her lips, humming noncommittally.

"Don't forget your meds," Andrea adds carefully.

* * *

**Day 3**

  
"Is that the Book?"

Jumping in place, Miranda presses a hand to her chest, admonishing, "Don't sneak up on me. Do you want to give me another heart attack?"

"Sorry." Andrea bites her lip, proceeding into the den. At 7 in the morning, she's still in her pajamas: a white, maroon-lined, form-fitting set that Miranda doesn't recognize, however evidently her teachings have stuck. She considers the fact that she never has to see a pair of flannel pants again a blessing.

Plopping down on the couch across from her, Andrea pulls her unbrushed hair into a high ponytail that leaves plenty of bumps on the top of her head. "I forgot about that." She nods toward the back of the laptop resting in Miranda's lap, referring to the magazine's mock-up. "I'm now realizing I didn't hear anyone coming in last night."

"We switched to a digital copy a few years ago," Miranda explains absentmindedly, typing a note on the current page on her screen. "Less paper waste, advancing with the times, et cetera, et cetera."

"Oh. Well, it does sound more convenient. Did you only get it now, though?"

"No," says Miranda and momentarily purses her lips, weighing the merits of elaborating. Eventually, as casually as she can, she goes on, "I was too-- I didn't want to stay up too late last night."

"Oh," Andrea repeats. "Good, I'm glad. I think you should do this every day, then. Review it in the morning instead of late at night, I mean. You need your sleep."

"Thank you for your permission," Miranda replies drily, frowning at the color scheme on a new page.

"I'm gonna get started on breakfast," Andrea changes the subject. "Eggs again?"

"Fine," Miranda answers distractedly.

* * *

"Give me your arm."

"Do we have to do this every day?" Miranda complains.

"Yep," is Andrea's annoying response right before she rolls the cashmere sleeve up Miranda's outstretched arm and secures the blue cuff around it. With the click of a button on the little, white machine, the cuff starts squeezing and tightening around Miranda's arm, her discontentment with the feeling showing in her frown. She watches the numbers climb on the screen, dreading the result like a school kid waiting to get her test back. If it's too low, she fails; if it's too high, she fails, and in the grand scheme of things, she's already failed or she wouldn't have to put herself through this torture now.

"Okay, all good," Andrea announces when the digits have stopped changing and the cuff has loosened its grip.

"How much?" Miranda asks and hates the betraying hint of nervousness in her voice.

"130 over 80. It's good," Andrea assures her, sliding the restricting cuff off her arm. Miranda can't see any good in her predicament. "Have you taken your meds?"

"Yes," she bites, but Andrea's gaze wanders skeptically to the untouched, blue box in the corner of the table.

"No, you haven't," she accuses, deriving an eye roll from Miranda, who resentfully pulls it to her.

"I'm gonna go out in a bit, for an interview," Andrea says while she gulps her bundle of pills with a sip of water, "but I'll be back before lunch. Do you need anything?"

"Yes, a break from you," Miranda replies, then hears the words falling from her lips, registers the harshness encasing them. Andrea, after all, has no obligation whatsoever to do what she's doing: she's not her partner, she's not even her friend; she's her nobody, and before two weeks ago, she can't even remember the last time they'd spoken. She was right at the hospital: without her, Miranda would have no one. She'd be just as alone as the night her heart gave out, and as aggravating as Andrea's presence is, it might be better than the alternative. It might be better, all things considered, than a mere two weeks ago. Because Andrea is infuriating, as Andrea always is. But she's there.

Flicking her hand through the air, she rectifies her statement, "Go, do your job, I'll be fine."

But half an hour later, as she sits behind her desk and listens to the decreasing sound of footsteps, growing farther away from the study, where Andrea stopped to say goodbye, and descending the stairs, Miranda feels a small pit open up in her stomach, expanding with every duller step on the carpeted stairs. Her fragile heart feels heavy in her chest cavity as she hears the front door open downstairs, and like she did three years prior, Andrea walks out of it.


	3. Welcome Guest

**Day 4**

  
Miranda stands by the banister and quietly looks two floors down, where a head of fiery red hair is buried in Andrea's neck, her arms wrapped tightly around its owner's body. The hug is long and silent, the front door still wide open behind the girl whose light, floral dress softly blows in the gentle wind. When they finally part, Andrea pulls back and strokes her hand down the hair that comes down to mid-back with a smile so warm it makes Miranda's fingers curl tightly around the dark wood of the banister.

"It's so good to have you here," Andrea says to Cassidy, her voice so soft it barely drifts to Miranda's ears on the third floor. Cassidy's eyes, however, crinkle at the sentiment.

"I should say the same thing to you." Similar to Andrea, this is her first time in an immeasurably long while back in the house she grew up in. Unlike her sister, who managed to take a break from her masters studies at _Princeton_ to spend close to a week at Miranda's hospital bedside, Cassidy was unable, up until now, to take time off from her intern job at _Biagiotti_ , which she landed partly due to her degree in fashion design and natural talent and mostly thanks to her mother's name. The last time Miranda got to embrace her daughter was the day she left for Rome close to a year ago, and having her home now, so close, makes her heart clench with a new kind of pain.

"How is it that you live in Italy and you're still so skinny?" Andrea demands, pressing her hands to either side of Cassidy's narrow hips, while Miranda makes her slow way down the staircase.

"Please!" sputters Cassidy. "I've gotten huge! Look at my chins," she proclaims and places the back of a hand beneath a bony jawline.

"I only see one," Miranda comments lightly upon arrival on the first floor and smiles at the light that flickers in her daughter's eyes.

"Mom!" she exclaims and promptly throws herself at Miranda, who catches her with a soft grunt. "Oh! I'm sorry." She removes herself, her eyes now wide with horror and regret. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," Miranda is quick to reassure, pulling her back in for a warm, lingering hug. Tilting her head, she presses her nose to her child's hair and sniffs the floral scent that matches her dress, closing her eyes in remembrance of intoxicating baby smell.

"I'm so glad you're okay," Cassidy mumbles into her neck.

"I'm fine."

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too, baby."

* * *

"So you know that little alley behind _Otello_?"

"Mhm." Andrea nods, then turns to Miranda with a smile. "Oh, it's where we had that amazing lasagna, remember?"

"Well, that's where I saw him," Cassidy continues, her expression becoming dreamy, "and, oh, my god, he's so cute. Blond, like, really light blond, almost white, with brown eyes, and you should have seen the way he looked at me. I just fell in love with him on the spot. And I knew I probably wouldn't have time with the internship and all, but I couldn't help it--I took him home."

"Are you sure he didn't belong to anybody?" Miranda questions with a frown, spreading mashed avocado onto a slice of whole-wheat toast.

Shrugging, Cassidy swipes through the gallery on her phone. "He didn't have a collar or anything, and I think he'd been there for at least a few days 'cause he was really hungry. His mom probably abandoned him. I took him to the vet and-- here." She grins, handing her phone to Andrea, who beams at the puppy on the screen.

"He's so cute!" she coos.

"Right?" Taking the phone back, she passes it to Miranda. Putting down her bread, Miranda rubs her fingers together, crumbs descending onto her plate, and grabs her glasses from the table. She accepts the phone while Cassidy goes on to say, "He's the happiest dog in the world, and he's so playful. He kinda reminds me of Patricia when she was young."

Across the table, Andrea's smile turns rueful. "I miss her, too."

"How's work going?" Miranda changes the subject, taking a sip of water, and for the next while Cassidy fills them in on co-workers and fabrics and hard work. The scene feels oddly like the normal family they used to be.

When she gets to the story of how she accidentally stapled her own hand, Andrea gets up to clear the dishes off the table, throwing a quick look over her shoulder to Miranda, who begrudgingly opens her pill box and extracts the morning meds, petulantly presenting them to Andrea before placing them on her tongue. The interaction does not go unnoticed by Cassidy, and after the pills have slid down her mother's throat, she inquires, "How many do you have to take?"

"Too many," Miranda croaks, taking another sip of water.

"What do they all do?"

"I don't know, ask my nurse," she responds flippantly, gesturing to Andrea, who's leaning toward the dishwasher, loading it with their breakfast dishes. From her place at the head of the table, Miranda catches the familiar look on her daughter's face, the reserved expression of a head brimming with questions she knows she'll be inundated with before long.

* * *

With her head in her hand, Miranda listens to the "concerns" of _Elias-Clarke_ 's chairman on the other end of the line. The phone is warm against her ear after close to thirty minutes of conversation, her nerves about to crack. Rubbing her supporting hand across a weary face, she zones out the cigarette-induced raspiness of his voice and silently muses how the retired Irv Ravitz at least had the balls to be direct about his displeasure whenever they faced a disagreement. Then again, Irv also liked going behind her back and plotting plots.

George doesn't do that, wouldn't dare to step on her toes, but his unwillingness to acknowledge the elephant in the room is both uncomfortable and tiresome. Of course the last thing Miranda wants to do is discuss her private life and health--with her boss, no less--but she'd also like to be clear on whether she's about to lose her job or not.

"I promise you, George," she sighs, getting up from the chair that swivels in place with the lack of weight and rounding her desk toward the white couch, "sales will not suffer. If anything, they'll increase since everyone seems to have suddenly taken so much interest in me," she adds with a wry chuckle.

"I'm just worried the magazine's not getting enough attention," he says, sounding as if he's forcing the words out. "I know you put a lot of energy and effort into every issue and you have a great eye for detail, and I don't blame you for not being able to give a hundred percent right now--you should focus on getting better--"

"George," Miranda cuts him off. It's been a long phone call, they're treading water by now, and she'd like to put an end to it before her blood pressure starts going up. "The magazine is getting extra attention. You have Jan at the office and me here--I'm doing as much as I would at _Runway_ , if not more, now that I have far less distractions. Nothing's changed. I assure you I'm keeping everyone on their toes and I will _not_ let this issue flop, nor any other. You know you can trust me."

By the time George is pacified enough to, at the very least, hang up, Miranda feels drained, her spirits even more wounded than before. It's one thing to have her own concerns about work and another to have the entire _Elias-Clarke_ board expressing theirs, breathing down her neck until she's ready to blow apart like a straw hut.

Slumped on the couch, she leans her head back and closes her eyes, exhaling through her nose. In her chest, she feels her heart thumping, performing its job as if nothing ever happened, pretending it never strayed from its duty lest it faces the consequences. Both of them are trying to feign normalcy, convince the world that nothing's changed when everything has.

A knock on the study's door pries her eyes open. They must have been closed for a while because for the first couple of seconds the white, LED lighting of the room blinds her with its intensity, makes her blink to adjust. The next moment, Cassidy pokes her head inside.

"Are you still working?" Her voice is low, as if not wanting the disturbance to be heard by anybody else, but Miranda's phone is lying limply in her unmoving hand.

She shakes her head and tries to rid her face of the stress the phone call induced. "I'm done for today."

Coming fully inside, Cassidy crosses her arms and smiles slyly. "I'm supposed to convince you to go out for a walk with me."

"Are you now?" Miranda replies and can imagine Andrea waiting downstairs to see if her bargaining chip has done its job. Expelling a heavy breath, Miranda acquiesces, "Let me get dressed."

Close to another half-hour later, dressed and made-up, she follows Cassidy out of the townhouse, passing by Andrea's deceptively nonchalant face.

They walk side by side, Cassidy's eyes tracking her footsteps on the sidewalk, Miranda's drinking in the commotion of the city in the afternoon hours, when she would normally be cloistered up in her high floor of the _Elias-Clarke_ building or gliding through the streets in a secluded car, excluding herself from the hustle and bustle. Now, the noise of car horns and construction work fills the silence that stretches between her and Cassidy as they pass the neighboring houses. Miranda knows there must be paparazzi lurking around with a long-focus lens, waiting to capture her first appearance since her life was upended, but _they_ know that it would be in their best interest not to expose her child to the public, grown as she may be.

It takes them less than a minute to turn onto Lexington Avenue, where Miranda's quiet neighborhood of townhouses opens into an active street of stores and pedestrians, and that's when Cassidy speaks up. "Okay, so walk me through everything 'cause I'm sick of getting only half-stories," she says, directing a penetrating look at the side of Miranda's head.

"Straight to the point," Miranda murmurs, but Cassidy waits. She sneaks a glance at her companion: the late afternoon sun, low in the sky, lights up her red hair, enveloping it in a golden contour that makes her head look as if it's bursting in flames, the look in her eyes just as intense without the need for external light. Miranda readjusts the wide sunglasses on the bridge of her nose and turns her gaze back to the street ahead of her.

"The doctor said it could have been worse," she says dispassionately.

"What does that even _mean_?" demands Cassidy, her frown evident in her voice.

"Well, obviously I'm not dead, so that's a plus side."

"But is there risk for another heart attack? Are you permanently sick now? When can you stop taking those pills? Are you supposed to make any lifestyle changes?" There they are, the questions Miranda knew were coming. Cassidy's always had them, since the moment she could form a coherent sentence and before that even. She's gripped by curiosity, the desire to know everything, gather the answer to every mystery the world presents in her brain. It was endearing when she was a toddler, pointing at objects and demanding to know their purposes; less so when she grew up, bombarding everyone with endless inquiries that couldn't be left unanswered; it's disconcerting now when the things she wants to know are those Miranda is trying so hard to ignore.

"Why does it matter?" she replies offhandedly, shrugging her shoulders.

"Because you almost died, Mom," is Cassidy's stern response, and when Miranda no longer feels her at her side, she turns around to find her rooted firmly a few steps behind, her face set in steadfast anger and something else that Miranda can't quite decipher.

Aware of the masses passing by, adhereing to the fast pace of the city, she gives a subtle jerk of her head, wordlessly signaling for her daughter to rejoin her, and when she does, she says, "I didn't almost die. You're exaggerating."

"I don't understand how you're taking it so lightly."

"Trust me, I'm not," she replies emphatically, releasing a small, humorless chuckle.

"Then please talk to me like a grown-up," Cassidy pleads. "I wanna know everything."

And much like when she was a toddler and a teenager and everything in-between, Miranda knows it's futile to refuse her information, even if she'll never be entirely satisfied. "What do you want to know?" she relents with a sigh.

"How many pills do you need to take?" Cassidy asks immediately, as if she already has a mental list of questions prepared. Perhaps she does.

"Daily? Seven or eight."

"What are they? What do they do?"

"Blood thinners, beta blockers... I can't keep track." She waves her hand vaguely in the air. "You should honestly just ask Andrea about that." Andrea, at this point, has probably done more research than Miranda's actual doctor. How is it that, somehow, Miranda's biological child has more in common with her?

"Okay, what about physical activity? Is there anything specific you need to do?"

"Besides this?" she says, referring to their idle walk. "I'm not allowed to do much else, not yet, anyway. I should take it slowly, 'ease into it,'" she quotes both the doctor and Andrea.

"And work?"

"I'm working from home. Jan is helping from the office: she's taken on more while I'm taking on less."

"The fashion director?"

"Mhm."

Cassidy's next question comes after a momentary pause, and when she asks it, the hesitation and apprehension are clear in her voice. "And is there, like... are there any long-lasting effects? I mean, your heart..." she trails off, either unsure of how to pose the question or afraid to say the words out loud, just like Miranda is afraid to think them. She wants to know if her heart will ever fully recover or if "heart disease" is now going to be a new term to add to the vocabulary. She wants to know if Miranda's life, and by proxy hers and her sister's, is going to drastically change, if meds will become the norm and most foods will pose danger and high or low blood pressure will be something to watch out for.

Miranda takes her own time before responding, "You should ask Andrea--"

"I'm asking you."

"I don't know," she answers honestly. "I don't want to think about it right now."

"Didn't the doctors explain everything to you?" Cassidy asks in outrage.

"They did," she confirms. "I elected not to listen."

"Mom," Cassidy scolds, her gaze piercing her evasive one once more. "How can you be so cavalier about this? Don't you get that this is your health? Your life?"

"I understand that very well," she grounds through gritted teeth. "But it's _my_ health and _my_ life so I would like to keep it my business. You shouldn't worry about these things."

"Of course I should worry!" snaps Cassidy, her raised voice drawing a few gazes from passers-by. Miranda sends her a sideways glare before she passionately continues, "You don't know how scared Caroline and I were, you have no idea. Neither of us was there, we couldn't get to you. How do you think it feels to get a phone call from you out of nowhere, telling me you had a heart attack? What was I supposed to do?"

On the last syllable, her voice cracks and Miranda glances again to see if there's tears in her bright, blue eyes like the ones trapped in Miranda's own throat, choking her. Her daughter has grown so much, her features morphing from those of a girl to the face of a woman. She's taller, her voice has matured, her thoughts and opinions no longer belong to a child, but in that very moment, there's a little kid walking by Miranda's side, scared of losing her mom. Miranda's heart aches and shatters for her, threatens to overwork itself to the point of destruction again, and she yearns so much to put an arm around her daughter and hold her close, reassure her that she's there and not going anywhere. But there's people around.

"Let's go back, I'm getting tired," she says instead, her voice weak, her body heavy. Cassidy's face hardens, but she doesn't argue.

As they make their way back down the length of Lexington Avenue, Miranda says, "I'm sorry." Cassidy's facial muscles relax some as she turns to look at her, but she doesn't respond. "I didn't want to scare you. The whole point was not to scare you."

"I would be scared either way," she quietly counters. "But I'd be scared less if you didn't keep me in the dark so much."

Without quite waiting for her brain to approve, she hears the words coming out of her mouth: "Maybe I'm keeping myself in the dark." Almost inaudibly, as if sounding the statement would make it more real, she admits, "Maybe I'm scared, too." And, at her side, in the middle of the busy street and among the throngs of people, Cassidy takes her hand. She doesn't let go.

As they near East 73rd Street, Cassidy broaches a new subject, and with that switch her attitude shifts as well, her voice lighter. "So. Andy's back," she notes knowingly, watching her mother's face carefully for a reaction.

"Yes. Can you get her out of my house?"

"But Mom," she counters as they arrive in their neighborhood, the townhouse looming not far ahead. Her lips quirk and her eyes inspect Miranda's tense jaw and cheeks. "Do you really want her out of your house?"

They turn toward the front steps of the house, where Miranda pauses at the bottom while Cassidy blithely climbs up to the door. From the top, she looks back and flashes Miranda a cheeky, secretive smirk.


	4. "What If"s

**Day 6**

  
Mid-morning, when the sun is already high in the sky but the sticky summer heat has yet to make an appearance, Miranda embraces her daughter, smelling her subtle perfume and feeling her young, healthy heart beating between them. She hadn't realized, until Cassidy walked through the townhouse door, how much she'd missed having her children close, and now letting go feels next to impossible.

The last couple of days were somewhat bittersweet. Having Cassidy home at all times felt like a special gift, especially following her long period of absence, but the reminder of the reason for her visit hovered over the house like a dark rain cloud, grey and heavy and threatening of doom, an invisible clock ticking constantly in the background, counting down the minutes until she left again. On top of that, the feeling of almost reunion, almost family was strange, to say the least.

Andrea and Cassidy spent much of those two days together while Miranda worked, chatting and catching up, their laughter filling the house with its foreign sound and carrying into the upstairs study. During shared meals, they easily slipped back into a familiar rhythm, so much so that Miranda, if she tried, could pretend it had been a day and not three years since their last one.

Miranda knows they've kept in touch, Andrea and her daughters, their texting group probably more alive than ever. She also knows her girls have been actively keeping it from her. She can see why, for the most part, and so she's learned to look the other way and not take offense that her kids would feel the need to hide the fact that they didn't turn their backs on the person who'd shared some of their most formative years.

It's a unique kind of relationship they have with Andrea. She was too young to be their stepmother and too old to be their friend, not to mention romantically involved with their mother, which _would_ put a damper on any friendship. Her role in their lives was never quite defined, but she was their Andy and, Miranda suspects, always will be, regardless of their relationship status.

Being witness to her and Cassidy's interactions, however, has been somewhat of a shock to the system, and a blow to the stomach, and she couldn't help the feelings of sorrow and regret it stirred inside. The good, old "what if"s. What if they'd tried harder? What if she hadn't let her walk away? What if she'd said something different, done something better? What if it hadn't ended?

And as soon as those throughts intruded, she'd shake her head to rid it of them. "What if"s never do any good. What if her heart was still healthy? What if her daughters had stayed close? What's done is done, and the only way to move forward is to look forward and not dwell on things that can't be changed. It only aids in intensifying the emptiness she feels inside.

The time Miranda and Cassidy had together, alone, during the past two days was spent, in its majority, in interrogations. Adamant to learn every new detail about her mother's condition, Cassidy's inquiries insisted on taking Miranda back to dark places: to the cheap feel of hospital bed sheets' polyester, to the pinching of the IV needle in her arm, to feelings of fear and agony and helplessness overshadowing everything else. It almost, _almost_ was enough to make Miranda regret her visit, but also served as a reminder that Cassidy wasn't home on vacation. A reminder of the new route her life had been unceremoniously shoved onto.

Reluctantly, she pulls away and caresses Cassidy's cheek. "Call me when your plane lands."

"I will." Cassidy nods. "Promise to keep me in the loop?"

"Of course," Miranda obliges, even though she knows already it's a promise she won't keep. One thing hasn't changed and that is the deep, primal urge to protect her children. They're just starting out, building their own lives, making something of themselves--they should focus on that. It's a mother's job to worry about her kids, not the other way around.

"My turn?" Andrea smiles when the moment is over. She's been standing off to the side, patient as to not interrupt the family moment; there used to be a time when there was no question or doubt that family moments included her.

Now Miranda watches as she hugs her child, a different kind of moment that _she's_ not part of, before Cassidy withdraws. "Oh! My laptop."

"Isn't it in your suitcase?" Andrea's gaze lowers to the _Louis Vuitton_ in question.

"No, I left it on my bed."

"I'll get it," Miranda volunteers, partly as a last-minute act of kindness toward her departing daughter and mostly as an excuse to remove herself from the scene.

When she's descending toward the ground floor a few minutes later, laptop case in hand, Cassidy and Andrea are held in a hug again, quietly spoken words floating up to Miranda's ears.

"Be patient with her. I know she's being tough, but she really needs you."

"Don't worry about us." She can hear the warmth in Andrea's voice, feels a pang in her heart at the word "us." She can't remember the last time she heard Andrea use it in reference to the both of them. "Let me know, too, when you're in Rome, okay? I'm not sure she'll share."

With an eye roll, Miranda knows it's her cue to resume her descent, but stops again when Cassidy says, "It really is great to see you here again. I missed it."

"Well..." Andrea pauses. "I'm just a guest this time. I'm only here to help."

"You know that's not true," Cassidy argues, her tone low and gentle. "This is where you belong."

Andrea clears her throat, looks toward the stairs, and just in time for Miranda to school her features into their usual blankness and complete her journey. "Oh," Andrea says, her voice not quite as steady as it was a minute ago, her eyes blinking rapidly. With a tremulous smile, she nods toward the computer. "It _was_ in your room."

"Thanks, Mom." Cassidy smiles gratefully, taking the case's handle from her before pulling her into another hug. "Feel better, okay? Don't overexert yourself."

"I won't," Miranda promises, meeting Andrea's glassy eyes over Cassidy's shoulder.

* * *

"It was really nice to have her here, wasn't it?" Andrea says later that day, bringing two plates of baked cod and asparagus to the kitchen table, where Miranda's already preparing her meds. "When was the last time she was here?"

"Not since she left," Miranda replies, grabbing her cutlery. The atmosphere has settled some since the excitement of Cassidy's visit waned, the new routine Andrea and she have been adjusting to throughout the last few days resuming more naturally than Miranda had expected. She spent the remainder of the morning in a video call with Jan, who reassured her that, on her end, things were running without a hitch, while Andrea did her own work and prepared lunch.

"Wow. It's not easy," Andrea acknowledges, sympathy lacing her voice. 

"I've gotten used to it," Miranda lies, and the rest of their lunch passes in companionable silence.

Plate cleared, Andrea is pouring herself another glass of water when she casually suggests, "You can have visitors, you know." She places the pitcher back on the table before chancing a glimpse at Miranda. "You're not bed-bound or anything. You can go out, see people, live your life. Even Dr. Sanghvi said there's no reason for you not to have a good time. Just, in moderation."

"I'm aware." Miranda pats her lips with the corner of her napkin. "However, I'd prefer not to see anybody at the moment."

"If that's what you want," Andrea cedes without fanfare, but a few minutes later, she makes another proposal that takes Miranda off guard. "We also don't have to eat in every day, you know. I mean, I really don't mind cooking, but I know that you prefer eating out."

The second it's said, the double entendre, perhaps Freudian slip, is not lost on either of them, and while Miranda's eyes widen, Andrea clears her throat loudly and scratches her scalp. "I mean _go out_ to eat. In a... a restaurant."

"Well..." Miranda finds herself at a temporary loss for words, running the backs of her fingers back and forth below her chin. "I'm glad I have your permission."

That releases a nervous chuckle from Andrea, who specifies, "No, I mean, I thought if you wanted, we could go out tonight. I was gonna make some beef, but it can wait for another day."

"Go out?" Miranda's gaze carries over to her and she has no idea what it's showing, but Andrea's cheeks promptly flush.

"Well, not like that," she concedes quietly. "Just... go out."

"I know what you mean," Miranda admits just as quietly and looks away, "and I appreciate the offer."

"But no," Andrea finishes for her, her smile looking forced. She has to know, though, just like Miranda, what the implications of her suggestion are. What it would look like to the public, how it would feel to them. There is a line that has been severely blurred since the day Andrea entered Miranda's hospital room, and if they're not careful, it could lead to very dangerous places. They are broken up, as simply and permanently as any other separated couple, and so far they have done a marvelous job of avoiding the subject of their separation. Some boundaries have to be maintained, if only to keep the wound that has yet to fully heal from opening up again and gushing blood that would be much harder to stop the second time around.

"I think it's better that we don't," Miranda says softly, finding Andrea's eyes again. In them, she sees that even without elaboration, Andrea does know, does understand.

"Beef it is, then," she announces, trying to sound cheerful.

* * *

Once upon a time, Miranda was infatuated. It seems as unlikely now as it did back then, but it's a fact nonetheless. Everything about Andrea charmed her: every look, every action, every sound; from her wide, uninhibited smile to the light dancing in her eyes, from the sway of her hips to the way her head tilted back when she laughed, her hair falling against her back in soft strands; the taste of her lips, the feel of her touch, the sweetness of her unapologetic shamelessness, and the previously dormant emotions she managed to arouse in Miranda. She hadn't known until then what it was like to be truly and utterly in love. It might have been the fact that all her previous partners had been men, but all the same, none of them had been Andrea.

Lying in her empty bed, her slim body occupying a fraction of the cold, king-sized width, she stares into the darkness and ruminates on exactly when everything started going wrong. It was so gradual, like the movement of the sun in the sky, that there's not one moment she can pinpoint. Alternatively, it was a collection of many different moments, each too small to be significant on its own, but combined, they signaled the demise of yet another relationship, the only one she couldn't let go of.

They were always going through ups and downs, like waves in a tumultuous sea, but that's what you get when you put together two people so vastly different from one another. It was a long time before disagreements didn't escalate into fights and then some more for the disagreements to decrease altogether, the longevity of their relationship helping them both change and evolve into a strong unit. By then, it was customary that they kissed upon reuniting at the end of the day, spent Christmas in the Hamptons and Thanksgiving with Andrea's family, had breakfast together on weekends, frequented one of their favorite restaurants on 3rd Avenue for teenagers-free date nights. Miranda liked running her short nails across the back of Andrea's neck when they sat next to each other, Andrea liked rubbing her cold feet against Miranda's to warm up in bed. Miranda sacrificed hours of her life to watch various television shows with Andrea, who accompanied her to every party and gala with a glamorous dress and zero complaints. They had their jokes, they had their stories, they had memories, they had a life.

And then the fighting began again, like a miniscule flame that burst into an all-encompassing fire so quickly it was impossible to put it out in time. It ignited everything in its vicinity, unyielding and unwilling to stop until it was all burned to the ground. Arguments about what to watch on TV, whose turn it was to take Patricia out, one of them chewing too loudly snowballed into full-fledged fights that called forth accusations about misguided priorities, lack of commitment and dedication, bottled-up judgement and frustrations about work habits, intimacy, and everything in-between. Fighting had ceased to be a disturbance to their relationship and become their entire relationship.

The sex, if it was had, was cold and detached, dinners were eaten separately, and when it was finally over, there was no relief, no hatred, just a bitter feeling of anticlimax and the acidic emptiness in Miranda's stomach that threatened to expand and eat her up from the inside. Another failure. Another love gone.

The disintergration of their relationship was indeed gradual. It was so drawn out, in fact, it was as excruciating as pulling teeth one by one, and by the time it was over, it had left everything wounded and bleeding in its wake. But as gradual as the separation was, the abruptness with which Miranda's life changed was astounding.

Overnight, there was one toothbrush in her bathroom, one office in her house, and one body in her bed. The sudden, naked state of empty shelves and drawers and rooms was almost blinding. She went to sleep alone, woke up the same, and the silence and stillness that accompanied every action in a house that had once bustled with life gave the illusion of it holding its breath, as if waiting for Andrea's return. Everything that had been theirs had become Miranda's and traditions that had been carried out for years had to be eradicated, life reset to be learned anew like a baby familiarizing its hollow brain with the world for the very first time. Miranda didn't throw away Andrea's favorite cheese until it had molded all over.

Now Andrea is back, taking care of her like she would have in the good days. Miranda wonders what might have happened if her heart attack had occured back then. Would it have forced Andrea to stay? Could it have saved them? Another "what if."

Andrea's return is now accompanied by a feeling of helplessness, anger at her situation, and thoughts of her mortality. The tumultuous waves have not once stopped rocking Miranda's world, and somehow Andrea is always there for it, although whether to catch her or pull her further underwater she's not sure. She feels as if she can't breathe, all right, and even in the shadows, the room becomes narrower, the walls closing in on her. Her heart squeezes in her chest, her head swimming with fears and worries, and then something tickles her temple.

Touching her fingertips to the skin, she's stunned to find moisture. What is that? Another droplet trickles down onto the pillow, staining the fabric with a tiny, wet patch before she realizes that she's crying. Everything else is numb--everything but for the tears that escape when she blinks her eyes, sliding down pre-drawn tracks on her temples and stinging the skin with their unwelcome intrusion. What is she crying about? She doesn't know, and she doesn't know how to stop.

It's been a bittersweet few days. It feels only bitter now.


	5. The Ex Factor

**Day 10**

  
Depression. Her doctor said she might experience it; she brushed it off. What a ludicrous notion. Miranda doesn't get depressed. It's all mind over matter. Anxiety, melancholia, breakdowns--feelings commonly associated with mental issues don't plague her. She feels sad like everybody else, she gets irritated and hot-tempered, she has her moments of joy, but all of them appear in spurts and moderation and never manage to eclipse any other emotion and take over her life. It's all due to her iron-clad self-control and stellar compartmentalization skills.

But now she feels very little else than a feeling she can hardly put into words. Depression should be synonymous with sadness, should it not? A heap of blankets, a pint of ice cream, and a box of _Kleenex_ to wipe the tears away. But in her case, the tears come sparingly, and in their place there's a numbing sensation of nothingness, a complete lack of energy and motivation to execute the simplest, most basic tasks like showering and changing clothes. She's barely hungry, her fuse is shorter than usual, and a constant feeling of dread of something she can't even name follows her around like a piece of toilet paper on her shoe sole. First her heart, now her brain, her entire body turning on her.

She supposes she can attribute the mood to Cassidy's leaving. Saying goodbye to her daughters, whether she got to spend a day or a month with them, always brings on a sense of despondency, the empty nest syndrom wrapping its sharp, grey claws around her for the ensuing days. At the very least, she wants to pin her feelings on it because that is a more justifiable reason than just her mind pulling her strings like a marionette.

Work, it turns out, as always, is a welcome distraction and therefore a godsend. For the majority of the day, it keeps her busy, something to focus on that she knows she can accomplish, is good at, will keep her mind occupied enough to forget everything else. That's where her compartmentalizing comes in handy and saves her from things she cannot control. Her job, her magazine, her employees she can control, even from a distance.

Andrea, on the other hand, has developed an agitating habit of hovering, observing. There's little doubt in Miranda's mind that, after a seven year relationship, she can easily read her and interpret every look, every word, every mood. So far, she has yet to comment on whatever she's managed to deduce, but Miranda knows her days are numbered.

For the most part, they've settled into a relatively comfortable routine following Cassidy's visit, going about each day almost like clockwork. Andrea will already be up when Miranda comes downstairs in the morning, either preparing breakfast or sitting down with a cup of coffee and her iPad, absorbing the last moments of quiet before the day begins; they'll disperse to different rooms to work--Miranda to her study and Andrea, usually, the second floor sitting area--during which Andrea will occasionally interrupt Miranda to check if she needs anything, ask to take her blood pressure, and remind her to get up and walk; at noon, they'll have lunch together, then resume their respective businesses until dinnertime. It's those twilight hours, between dinner and bedtime, when there's only so many distractions to occupy Miranda's wandering thoughts and her glumness reappears, and when she's lying in her enormous, lonely bed, trying with all her might to clear her head and fall asleep, the thoughts return to beleaguer and poke at her.

She doesn't have them now, running her fingers delicately down the photoshoot proofs delivered to her, eyes squinting to detect every minor imperfection. She could never dedicate the same attention to detail on a computer screen. Some things, like the Book, like her news, she can make allowances for, succumb to the advancement of technology; other things there's no way to approach but old school. Miranda has applied the same method of perfection to her job for decades and even at the helm of an industry that preaches constant change, a winning system can't be replaced.

With her life's work before her eyes, there's very little room for anything else: for fear for her declining health, for musings about failed relationships, for concerns about the unexpected turn her life has taken. She's completely immersed, devoting to her magazine the same level of attention she's promised to her superiors, the same level of attention that has never once failed to produce a flawless product. A winning system.

"Miranda," a voice calls from the doorway, dull and distant in her laser-focused consciousness. "Miranda, it's already 5; you haven't walked all day."

"Soon, darling," she murmurs, zoning in on the jewelry placement of the wild-haired model in the photograph. But even in the midst of her concentration, she registers the deathly silence that suddenly befalls the room. There's no footsteps, no door clicking, and she can still feel Andrea's presence in the space. It's not until she looks up from the picture that Andrea's bewildered face replays her own words back to her.

A comfortable routine indeed, she thinks breathlessly and blinks. "I mean soon," she stiffly corrects herself, looking anywhere but at the gradually smoothing features of Andrea's face, the lips that quirk into a wicked smirk.

"Sure thing, honey."

"Very funny." She glares at her amused, departing form.

Dinner is quiet. Miranda forces each bite of fish down her throat; if her menu doesn't get shaken up soon, she might just have to sneak a lamb chop into the house. Sighing, she reaches for the salt shaker, but before she can so much as tilt it toward her plate, a hand snatches it from hers.

Turning raging eyes to Andrea, she watches her calmly place it beside her own plate, out of Miranda's reach, and resume her eating. "See what happens when I'm not here to look after you?" she says. "Your heart stops working."

Yes. Too comfortable.

* * *

**Day 11**

  
"Tell her I want to see more yellow and pink--it's a summer shoot, for Christ's sake, not a funeral," Miranda dictates to her second assistant, who sits on the other side of her desk and quickly scribbles her notes in a notebook. "The _Fendi_ belts: I didn't like any of them, I want to see more. I also want to see what Anne has, she's stalled long enough. Reschedule Michael Kors's preview to when I get back--"

A soft knock on the door interrupts her mid-sentence and she's already rolling her eyes before the door opens to reveal Andrea. "Sorry to disturb you," she begins.

"Then don't," Miranda cuts her off and turns back to her assistant, but behind the assistant, Andrea arches an imperious eyebrow and holds up an all-too-familiar box.

"You forgot to take your pills at lunch."

Before her, Miranda can see her assistant's lips form a tight line and her eyes dart anywhere that's not in Miranda's vicinity. Miranda, in turn, can feel her blood pressure increase without the indication of a machine, her cheeks burning in mortification. "Later," she hisses, shooting Andrea a glare that is nothing short of murderous.

But Andrea is unperturbed. "It's already been three hours, Miranda."

Miranda grinds her teeth so hard it'll be a wonder if the other inhabitants in the room can't hear it. "I said--"

"Now," Andrea asserts. Her assistant squirms in her chair. In a flash, Miranda is out of hers, stalking toward the door. But she doesn't take the box from Andrea's hand. Instead, she grips her elbow so hard the edges of the bones dig into her palm and fingers and roughly leads her out into the hall, closing the door behind them.

Every one of her facial muscles is clenched in displeasure, but where moments ago Andrea enjoyed the authority she was trying to hold over her, there's now clear apprehension in her countenance as she meets Miranda's gaze.

"What do you think you're doing?" Miranda angrily demands.

"I was just--"

"You want to play nurse, boss me around? Fine," she spews, not letting her answer. "I'll eat flavorless food, I'll let you check my blood pressure, I'll walk around my house like an idiot. But you will not, _will not_ embarrass me in front of my employees, is that clear?"

"I wasn't trying--" Andrea starts indignantly, but her voice is decidedly weaker rather than stern.

Miranda, again, doesn't allow her to finish, pointing a taut finger toward the closed door, behind which her assistant can possibly hear even their hushed tones. "This is my job. This is the one thing I have left where I get to call all the shots, and so long as I'm in there, you are not allowed inside."

Eyes cast to the ground, Andrea presses her lips together and nods. "I'm sorry," she apologizes, but seems to have regained her equilibrium. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"Give me that," Miranda orders and plucks the pill box out of her hand. Opening the right compartment, she extracts the group of pills inside and, without water, tilts her head back and gulps them down, much to Andrea's astonished stare.

"Now don't bother me until dinner," she says, thrusts the box back in Andrea's feeble hand, and slips into her study.

The only words exchanged between them when Miranda finally comes downstairs a few hours later are "Dinner's almost ready," as Andrea breaks lettuce leaves and fills a bowl with them and "Fine," as Miranda proceeds to the head of the table, pulling her pills toward her.

They eat in complete silence, the scraping and clinking of cutlery against plates ringing far louder than any other day. It's only when their plates have been cleared and Miranda has taken her meds that Andrea ventures, "Are you still angry?"

With a sigh, Miranda relents, "No."

She can see Andrea eye her hand on the tabletop, but she doesn't reach out. Instead, she says, "I know this is all very hard, and I know my being here can't be making it much easier. For what it's worth, I think you're doing really well, all things considered."

"Okay," Miranda sighs again, pushing her chair back. She can feel Andrea's eyes on her as she makes her way out of the kitchen.

"Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"It's..." There's a pause, where she's undoubtedly checking her wrist watch. "7:30."

"I'm tired," Miranda replies, which is not a lie. But when Andrea speaks next, she stills.

"Wanna do something?"

Turning, she stares wearily at Andrea, who's also risen from her seat. There it is. She knew it was coming, knew it was only a matter of time before, in addition to trying to help her heart recover, Andrea would try to cure her sullen mood as well. "Do something?" she questions jadedly.

Andrea shrugs. "We could... watch TV or... I don't know." Then, however, her eyes light up. Miranda recognizes the look immediately. "Gin?" she suggests with a smile, as if it's the most brilliant idea she's had all day.

Miranda doesn't share the enthusiasm. "I'm not in the mood," she says and turns again.

Behind her, Andrea calls, "Scared to lose, Priestly?"

It's the cheapest, most juvenile tactic in the book, and still Miranda turns again and glowers. "I have lost only once. You, on the other hand..." She raises an eyebrow, her gaze traveling up and down the length of Andrea's body. "I can't keep track of the amount of times you've lost your pants to me. Quite literally."

Grinning, Andrea asks, "Is that a 'yes?'"

Miranda doesn't reply, but nevertheless, she walks back to the table. Ten minutes later, there are two piles of cards in the center while each player holds her own as well. It's an extremely familiar picture, the two of them sitting across from each other, peeking from behind hidden cards, usually at the upstairs dining table with two glasses of wine between them. And just like with every other game, Andrea is losing.

"Gin," Miranda calmly announces, prompting Andrea to join her in revealing her stack.

"It's a good thing we're not playing for money," Andrea observes dejectedly as Miranda collects more points.

"This was your idea," she reminds her as the game resumes.

"You're better than I remembered."

"You're worse than I remembered," responds Miranda, drawing a card from the pile and adding it to her collection. Her mood _has_ improved, if only fractionally, if only thanks the defeated look on Andrea's face.

"You might actually be more competitive than me," Andrea considers while reaching for the pile as well.

"I don't need to be: I always win."

Her lips lift in a smirk and her eyes glint wickedly. "Remember the time we played strip gin?" That also was her idea, and a bad one for somebody who was already wearing nothing but a silken babydoll and matching panties. In very short order, she was naked and complaining of the cold, by which point Miranda took enough pity on her to leave the bed and start a fire. When she returned, the cards had been swept off the duvet and Andrea was opening her legs. "What was it, our anniversary?"

"Mhm." Miranda nods, discarding a card. "In Provence. The same day that café owner yelled at you in French."

Mouth opening wide, Andrea lowers her cards almost enough for Miranda to get a glimpse and grins. "I remember that! And you refused to help me, or even translate. You just stood there and let her berate me," she accuses, even though her obvious amusement shows there's no real hard feelings. For that, Miranda allows herself to chuckle. "That was so mean!"

"You shouldn't visit a foreign country without knowing the language," she says haughtily.

"Okay, Miss Speaks Five Languages," Andrea sasses and snatches a card from the pile. "That was totally revenge for when I got marinara on your _Manolo_ s. You never did forgive me for that."

"And I never will," Miranda adds lightly and places a card face down on the discard pile. "Gin."

" _What?_ "

They play a few more rounds before Andrea inquires, looking at her cards, "Do you wanna talk?"

"About what?" Miranda plucks a discarded card from the pile.

"How you're feeling," she elaborates casually.

"With you? No."

"And with someone else?"

"Also no."

Picking up a card and adding it to her stack, Andrea says, "It's not good to keep things bottled up," something they're both adept at. It was, after all, one of their downfalls: feelings and frustrations accumulating until they reached a boiling point, and when it had all finally exploded, it was impossible to reassemble the pieces.

Sighing, Miranda puts down her cards, face up. "What are you doing?" Andrea exclaims. "I can see all your cards!"

"We can't keep doing this," she claims plainly.

"What?" Andrea asks dumbly.

"I know that you want to help, and I appreciate everything you're doing, I really do." Despite the constant nagging and controlling, Miranda's own feelings of dependency and indignity, she knows now that alone, she would have found herself completely and utterly overwhelmed in the face of this new lifestyle.

"But we can't do feelings," she continues severely and gestures between them. "This is odd enough as it is, but we're not together and we can't pretend otherwise."

"I know," Andrea says quietly, understandingly.

"So, like I said." Miranda nods. "I'll do whatever I need to do to get better, you do whatever you feel you need to do, but that's it. And when this month is up, we'll say goodbye and go our separate ways. Again."

Putting down her own cards, Andrea licks her lips and nods as well. "Sounds reasonable."

"Good," Miranda concludes after a brief pause and pushes her chair back. This time, as she leaves the kitchen, Andrea makes no attempt to stall her. She's probably realizing the same truth Miranda has: allowing themselves to get close again could only lead to heartache.


	6. The Million Dollar Question

**Day 15**

  
In the days following their conversation, the renewed distance between Miranda and Andrea is acutely felt. Their daily routine remains much the same, as well as Andrea's insistent need to care for Miranda's health, but the joking, the reminiscing, anything personal have been diminished to none. For the first time, they may actually be patient and caretaker, the only relationship forged between them being one that revolves solely around Miranda's physical care.

As for the emotional, Andrea has made no more ventures into inquiring about Miranda's mood, nor has she tried to lighten it. And Miranda's mood, for its part, has deteriorated accordingly. It's a little bit ironic that the very thing she tried to prevent from depressing her has somehow aided in fueling her melancholy more. For all intents and purposes, she's living with a stranger, much like at the end of their relationship; she may as well be sharing meals with her cook or passing her housekeeper in the hallway.

Now work is more important than ever, the urge to give a hundred and ten percent and produce an issue more successful than any other accompanied by the need to escape into a world where she doesn't have to think about all the things that are going so wrong in her real life. Perhaps that's what ends up summoning her reality check.

"Miranda," Andrea's voice calls from downstairs, muffled by the floors separating them. True to their agreement, she has ceased to show her face in the study, opting, instead, to get Miranda's attention from outside, wait for her to appear on her own, or, on occasion, text her. Now, however, her tone is decidedly enthusiastic as she shouts, "Can you come down here for a second?"

It's early afternoon and work is just beginning to pick up speed again post-lunchtime. Miranda has just wrapped up a phone call that had been scheduled in advance as a lunch meeting, right after her actual lunch with Andrea: fish again. While Jan is holding the reins back at the office, making sure no employee slacks off after their own lunch break, Miranda can spare just a few minutes between reviewing the jewelry samples she's received and reading the article she's waiting on to see what Andrea wants.

"What is it?" she asks halfway down the last flight of stairs when the sight before her stops her mid-step. In the foyer, with a wide grin that shows all her white teeth, Andrea lets herself be twirled in place by a man who brings her to a halt with his hands on her hips, leans over to check the swell of her ass, and gives an approving verdict in perfectly accented French: "Parfaite."

She doesn't look particularly glamorous in a white tank top and a pair of yoga pants that admittedly show off her ass, but at the admiration directed at her, Miranda feels frumpy even in her designer house clothes when Nigel Kipling turns his bald head and beams at her from behind tortoise shell glasses.

"Well, look who decided to show her face," he announces, moving to face the stairs fully as she elegantly completes her descent and places both hands on his chest.

"Darling," she says in surprise between air kisses, allowing their cheeks to touch. "What are you doing here?"

"You thought you could have a heart attack and keep it from me?" Stepping back, he presses a hand to his chest in mock-offense. "Honestly? I'm insulted you didn't tell me."

Miranda doesn't bother asking how he found out: by now, there are very few people left who haven't heard the news, fashion industry personnel or otherwise. Instead, she quips drily, "Did you come all the way here for an apology?"

"That," he allows, "and to see for myself that you're actually alive. She's been doing a pretty decent job hiding, hasn't she?" He turns to Andrea, but doesn't wait for an answer. "I came as soon as I could. And look at you." He takes her hand and another step back, as if to appraise her. "You're radiant, my dear. I came here expecting a living corpse."

For the last couple of years, he's been co-running one of the newest, most promising men's labels in Paris, right after leaving the editorial position Jacqueline Follet's replacement had left empty at French _Runway_ \--a poetic justice of some sort: after less than a year of working together, James Holt called Jacqueline a diva and refused to continue their partnership; meanwhile, the French editor appointed to her old job was slowly running the magazine into the ground, at which point Miranda seized the opportunity to recommend her fashion director for the job. These days, Nigel's name precedes him not only in France but in the entirety of the industry on his own merit, but apart from professional encounters and the occasional meal when they're both on the same continent, his and Miranda's decades-old friendship has been harder to maintain.

Except that now he's in her hallway and her fondness for him returns tenfold.

"I'll leave you two alone," Andrea says kindly from where she's standing off to the side. "I need to go back to work anyway."

"Don't you dare," threatens Nigel. "I want us all to catch up."

But, grabbing his elbow, Miranda mutters, "Let her go." He turns to look at her and in that instance Andrea walks away. "Why don't you go up to the study? I'll change out of these..." She pulls at the collar of her cashmere shirt. "Clothes."

* * *

Returning to the study, she finds Nigel perched on the edge of the couch, inspecting the variety of jewelry on velvety trays on the coffee table.

"What do you think?" she asks, heading to a cabinet in the corner of the room. She's always trusted his opinion, one of the few she was and is willing to consider. It's why they made such a great professional duo for almost twenty years.

"You know me," he replies, sliding a lacy-looking, wide ring in white gold onto the tip of his index finger, the diamonds etched into the material glinting in the light. "Put a big, flashy ring on my finger and I'll say yes."

Uncapping a heavy, crystal bottle, Miranda pours a finger width of the auburn liquid inside into two matching glasses and turns around. "Don't tell the prison guard downstairs," she says conspiratorially, coming to join him on the couch.

"I think the politically correct term is 'correctional officer,'" Nigel jokes and takes one of the glasses. "And you, sweetheart," he adds, then takes the second one as well, "are not supposed to have alcohol." With that, he pours her glass' contents into his own to Miranda's stunned exasperation.

"You make it so hard to like you," she decrees, glaring as he tilts his head back and winces at the burn of the whiskey.

"Thank you," he replies with a self-satisfied grin.

She watches him remove the ring from his already adorned finger and carefully place it back on the black velvet, next to an overly colorful one she's already decided she won't be featuring in the magazine. "How's work?" she inquires and is content to let Nigel lead the conversation for the next few minutes, listening approvingly to his recountal of the upcoming fall/winter collection, the "magnifique" pants line he knows she'll love, and the near distaster they had with a horrifying mix-up of fabrics.

"Is Cassidy still with _Biagiotti_?" he finishes.

"She is," Miranda answers, "and having such a wonderful time she might never come home."

"Oh, look at you, poor empty nester," Nigel coos and takes a sip of his drink. "Tell her to come to us, we'll treat her well."

"If you can yank her out of Rome, more power to you." She tilts her head, running her fingers down the column of her neck. "How's Philippe?"

With a somber sigh, Nigel says, "Philippe's no longer with us."

"What?" Miranda asks in alarm, her eyes following him intently as he leans over to place his glass on the table.

When he realizes his mistake, he straightens and waves his hand through the air in cancelation. "Oh, no, I mean we broke up," he specifies, not looking too, well, broken up about it. Daintily lifting a long necklace with a round pendant, he holds it up before Miranda's chest, narrowing his eyes in contemplation.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be." He lowers the necklace back onto its tray. "It just stopped working. We split amicably. I was very grown-up about it, you should have seen me."

"How very big of you," she remarks wryly.

"Now," he begins, grabbing hold of his glass and turning to face Miranda, staring her down in a way that is almost uncomfortable, almost makes her want to flee the upcoming conversation. He has yet to even broach the subject, but she knows him long enough, well enough to know where his mind is. "Speaking of breakups, can you please tell me what She Who Must Not Be Named is doing here?"

It's the million dollar question, isn't it? One she still can't quite answer herself: why Andrea suggested, why she agreed. They went from a three year estrangement to, essentially, living together pretty much overnight and so far neither of them has forayed into acknowledging the absurdity of their situation. Instead, they've somehow skipped the awkwardness and gone straight to normalcy. Miranda isn't anxious to touch on it either way because the answer to Nigel's question seems more impossible to bear than being left in the dark: the truth that she's become a sad, decrepit, pathetic person who's alienated everyone in her life to the point where the ex who hates her has taken pity on her, taking this huge burden on herself because nobody else would. She hinted at that at the hospital, didn't she? And perhaps that led Miranda to relent and welcome her into the house she'd abandoned.

No, it's better not to dwell on those things. Ignorance is, after all, bliss. She just has to close her eyes, hold her breath, and wait for her month of incarceration to be over. After that, as per their agreement, Andrea and she will, once again, part ways and she'll at last be able to go back to her life, head buried in the sand.

"She insisted," she answers Nigel's question dismissively. "I was too tired to argue."

"You?" Nigel says skeptically, prolonging the vowel. "Too tired to argue? How did it come about that she... 'insisted,' anyway?" he asks, emphasizing the word as if able to guess there wasn't much persistence required in convincing Miranda. "When was the last time you two spoke?"

"The day she moved out." Miranda pinches her lips, refusing to meet his gaze.

Blowing air out of his mouth, Nigel lifts his eyebrows. "How long ago was that? Two years?"

"Three," she corrects him tensely and rises from the cushion. She's starting to get peeved, feels it in the frightening tightening in her chest. "She came to the hospital. What was I supposed to do, kick her out?"

"Did you want to?" he inquires archly as she rounds her desk, stopping with her hand on the back of her chair to look at him. He stares back knowingly, reading Miranda almost as well as Andrea can. After all, he's known her for far longer.

"Will you leave me alone? I had some more pressing matters to worry about at the time," she rebukes.

Getting up as well, Nigel holds his glass and saunters toward the desk. "And now here she is."

Miranda purses her lips again, sitting down with a sigh. "Now here she is."

* * *

Perhaps in honor of Nigel's visit, Andrea tries a new recipe. The roast chicken, despite the noticeable lack of delicious skin, comes out of the oven smelling incredible and tasting just as well with the addition of fruits and vegetables, sweet and savory mixing together in perfect harmony. She dishes the first serving to Nigel, who appears perfectly happy to be eating "something healthy for once" after confessing to his recent weeks of stress-induced debauchery in croissants and croque monsieurs.

"Better than a restaurant," he compliments despite his earlier suggestion that they all dine fancy. And publicly.

"You're so full of it," Andrea dismisses him, but can't seem to wipe the pleased grin off her face.

"Do you remember that awful carbonara she made for us?" he reminds Miranda with a pat on her wrist. Miranda cringes just at the memory of the cold meal they had to endure, unable to reheat their pasta lest its sauce should turn into scrambled eggs, but says nothing.

"You are such an ungrateful guest," Andrea accuses before finally sitting down, flashing Nigel a wide, unoffended smile across the table.

Their back-and-forth hasn't changed since the day they met, but Miranda doubts that, as is the case with her daughters, they stayed in touch once Andrea had ceased to be a part of her life. It's evident in the way Nigel regales her with every detail of his life in Paris and new job and masks his avid interest in her stories with witty, little jabs. For the majority of the meal, in fact, they more or less forget the third person in the room and Miranda, in turn, zones out of the conversation until her name pops up.

Completing a discussion she missed, Nigel says, "And that gorgeous, little number you wore for Miranda's birthday party? My god, you better still have it. Some clothes transcend time and fashion. Whose was it?"

Miranda remembers the dress: lace and tulle with a deep, plunging neckline, revealing half of Andrea's abdomen and a considerable cleavage. She remembers her gliding around the venue all night, the delicate hem of the gown caressing the marble floor whenever she moved, her face beaming with a glow that lit up the entire room. She also remembers helping Andrea into the dress and then slipping her hand underneath the long skirt fifteen minutes before they had to leave the house.

Andrea must remember this, too, because she sneaks a glance in Miranda's direction, her cheeks just a shade darker and the clear reminder of their agreement in her uncertain expression. They can't do history, can't reminisce about happy times lest they forget what the past has taught them. The nurse and patient roles might have been fun to play around with once upon a time; now lingers the question of just what exactly they're doing at the same table. Quietly, she mumbles her answer, " _Oscar de la Renta_."

The quick exchange is not missed by Nigel, who, nevertheless, declares, "That dress was a work of art." But where Andrea was indulgent moments prior, she's now more reserved when it comes to unearthing memories with him, and the shift in the atmosphere persists throughout the rest of the meal, no longer shared between three old friends but a group of strangers who can all taste the tension in the air.

Their unconventional predicament is at last given a name when dinner is finished: Andrea excuses herself to go upstairs and Miranda and Nigel retire to the den, where Nigel raises his eyebrows and bluntly determines, "That was one awkward dinner." He pulls a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and takes off his glasses, lowering to the couch while wiping the lenses.

With his glasses back on, he observes Miranda through the frames: her tired posture in her chair, the pursing of her lips. She doesn't acknowledge his statement and that must prompt him to change the subject. "So how's working from home going for you? Started climbing the walls yet?"

"It's not as restrictive as I expected, I suppose," she concedes, glad to move onto a safer topic. "Technology certainly helps. Although nothing can replace the real thing. I refuse to have important meetings in my home, not to mention not being at the office to oversee how it's functioning. Jan is doing an outstanding job, however--I'll give you that for bringing her in--"

And despite being the one to raise the subject, Nigel interrupts her answer with another blunt question: "Are you and Six getting back together?"

Taken aback, Miranda involuntarily shakes her head, as if that would clear the confusion. "God, no," she proclaims.

"Because it looks like you are," he maintains. "It looks like you're already back. I swear, when she opened the door for me, for a second I wasn't sure what year it was."

"I assure you, Andrea and I are not getting back together," Miranda insists in a very restrained tone.

"Well, then what the hell are you two doing?" he suprises her again with the judgemental note his voice takes on.

"Excuse me?"

"What is she doing here, Miranda?" he repeats his earlier question, but this time he seems to already have the answer, however misguided it may be.

Feeling every muscle in her body stiffen defensively, Miranda reiterates, "I already told you--"

"Yes, she insisted, you were too tired... Are you still too tired? Just how incapacitating is this condition of yours?" He gestures vaguely toward her body, the sarcasm heavy on his tongue.

"We are not close enough to talk about my health."

"But you and Andy are?" He arches a dubious eyebrow. "I see her arranging your little pills, looking at you like you might break. For someone who cut all ties with you for three years, she came back into your life with remarkable ease."

"We're done here," Miranda concludes at once, pushing on her armrests to raise her body from the chair.

"Are we close enough for me to make an observation?" Nigel's solemn voice halts her, and despite herself, she slowly sits back down. Against her rib cage, her heartbeats become palpable, the quick rhythm reminding her that her heart is still working, and how fragile it really is.

"She shouldn't be here," Nigel states matter-of-factly. "She shouldn't be cooking for you, she shouldn't be in charge of your recovery, she shouldn't have anything to do with this."

"Is that your grand observation?" Miranda dismisses him apathetically, but her heart starts beating faster.

"This is unhealthy," he asserts. "It's, by far, the stupidest thing the two of you have ever done."

"It wasn't up to me," Miranda argues, but her voice lacks the vehement conviction it usually possesses. "The doctor said I couldn't stay alone--"

"And you're Miranda Priestly. One phone call and you'd have had a certified nurse at your beck and call twenty-four-seven. Miranda, come on."

"What do you want from me, Nigel?" she pleads wearily.

"Why didn't you hire a nurse?" he presses.

Clicking her tongue, she sighs and frowns. "I don't know, you seem to have all the answers."

He misses not a single beat. "Do you still love her?"

His stare is so stern and piercing that it's practically pinning Miranda in place; she doesn't think she could escape if she tried. "That's ridiculous," she firmly rejects the notion.

"I agree." Nigel nods. "But do you?"

"That is none of your business," she hisses. Her personal life is none of his business. Her feelings are none of his business. The fact that, three years ago, Andrea walked out of the townhouse's front door with zero regards to her pleas, the full-bodied relief Miranda felt when she walked into her hospital room, the annoyance laced with comfort she experiences every day she wakes up and Andrea is in her kitchen, every night she goes to sleep, knowing Andrea is occupying the bed one floor up--none of that is any of Nigel's concern.

"Get her out of here," he lets her off the hook surprisingly easily, but doesn't let up, "before this gets worse than you've already made it."


	7. Demons

**Day 17**

  
She hears nothing but her own heavy breathing and the frantic thumping of her heartbeat. Tiny beads of sweat roll down her temples and lower back, her unused muscles scream in protest, but she doesn't listen. She pushes forward, gasping, throat dry--anything to drown out the voices in her head.

 _Do you still love her?_ Nigel's voice asks, taunting this time.

 _Get her out of here,_ he orders with a sense of authority, bossing her around in the guise of caring for her and her wounded heart.

 _...before this gets worse than you've already made it._ What does he know? She furrows her sweaty brow and pushes harder, gritting her teeth in anger and concentration.

"Okay, that's enough."

_Do you still love her?_

"Miranda, that's too much."

_Get her out of here._

"Miranda."

_Do you still love her?_

"Miranda, _that's enough_." A finger reaches for the speed buttons, pressing continuously on the down arrow, slowing the treadmill down to a gradual stop.

"What are you doing?" she pants when the change registers with her brain, her heavy legs trying to get used to the new rhythm. "Speed it back up."

"That's enough for today," Jin asserts with finality. "You've been walking for half an hour; you shouldn't overdo it."

"I'm not asking you," she spits in contempt and reaches for the buttons when the machine comes to a full stop, but a hand stops her and inches closer, voice softening.

"Come on," he urges gently, helping her spent body down to the floor.

She met Jin nearly a decade ago, after losing her personal trainer in favor of a job in England and blowing through countless others who couldn't make her follow their regime if they stretched her muscles themselves. Jin was different. His ego was as big as his body was small and his method included no compassion, no shortcuts, and plenty of hard work, and he quickly discovered that the only way to control Miranda Priestly is to not take shit from Miranda Priestly.

As of three days ago, she's been cleared for slightly more strenuous physical activity than touring her house and taking the stairs, and Jin was the first person she had her assistant call.

"Stretching," he commands and stands to the side, arms firmly crossed over his muscular chest, watching her do the regular exercises in their workout regime.

"I could go for more," Miranda stresses between labored breaths, extending her left calf behind her.

"And have you collapse on my watch? One heart attack wasn't enough? Change."

Pulling her right leg up, Miranda scowls. "I hate you."

"Guess I'm not the only one. What demons were you running from back there?"

"None of your business," she exhales, bracing against the nearest wall to straighten her left leg behind her and stretch.

"I like your progress, though." Jin nods. "Next, I want to try some swimming."

"I'm not coming out to the gym," she states.

"Well, I'd suggest your bathtub, but it might be too small."

"Find something else for me to do," she bites in his direction before lowering her chin to her chest and changing legs. "God knows I'm paying you enough to."

"Ooo, scary," Jin patronizes, heading to the corner of the room, where his gym bag waits patiently on the floor, "but you're not the boss of me in here. Keep doing the exercises we worked on, take a walk every day, and don't do anything stupid to your body before our next session. I'll see you next time."

Turning her head, she watches him proceed toward the door, her face red, the lines around her lips deepening in displeasure. "You're fired," she calls after him.

"Okay, see you Wednesday," he calls back jovially.

* * *

"Good workout this morning?" Andrea asks with a smile when Miranda enters the kitchen. "I saw Jin on the way out. He looked pretty pleased with himself."

"When is he not?" Miranda mutters sourly, wiping her hairline with a small towel. Her hair is mussed and damp, her skin sticky with perspiration. She ought to hop in the shower before she has to scrape the sweat off with a spatula.

"Here," Andrea says and holds out a clear smoothie cup, filled almost to the brim with a thick, green liquid. "I know how you like your green juice after a workout. Don't be mad, it's also really good for your heart."

Pursing her lips, Miranda reaches over the kitchen island, snatches the cup with a glare, and turns on her heel, striding back down the hall.

In the shower, as the hot water washes away the sweat and massages the taut, sore muscles, she closes her eyes, tilts her head back against the tiles, and lets her thoughts wander. She thinks about her heart, she thinks about Nigel, and she thinks about Andrea. Why is Andrea there, under no obligation to do so, with no reason to care if anyone else would? Why is she there, making Miranda juices and meals, checking her blood pressure, ensuring she stays healthy? Why is she there? Why did Miranda say yes and why did she offer?

She's always been nauseatingly nice, a virtue Miranda attributes to her Midwestern upbringing, but one can only be so nice before crowning themselves a saint and Andrea has never pretended to be _that_.

When she left, it was over. There was no question about that, no loose ends left untied or wonderings left unanswered. It was a breakup as final as any other: Miranda knew she had run out of chances, run out of ways to make her stay, and Andrea was not coming back. So why did she?

Was it her kindness, the same one motivating her to worry and fuss and show little gestures of caring? Was it Miranda's greatest fear, that she'd let herself become so pitiful and wretched that even the person who hated her most couldn't watch her destroy herself? Or was it something else entirely?

It has been three years. Such a short time in the grand scheme of things, but an eternity for a person to grow, change, forgive and forget. After all, it only takes one second for a heart to stop working; how many more life-changing moments can be fitted in millions of others? She can't remember, before those three years, a time when they could sit at the dinner table and share a pleasant meal, conduct a civil conversation, crack a joke that lifted both their spirits without it feeling forced--all the things they're managing now so effortlessly. Perhaps, with the passage of time, the long reprieve from the fighting and hurting and each other, they've gained the tools to communicate once again. And if they're able to do that...

Nigel was right: Andrea shouldn't be there, not if they ever want to go back to the lives they had before--the separate lives. And Miranda wonders now, could she ever go back? When the month is through and Andrea gathers her things and returns to her own house, her own routine, her own life--what will Miranda do then? She'll be alone, again, going to work, coming home, eating a quiet dinner prepared by an emotionally detached employee. It'll be bland food and medication and cardio exercises for the rest of her life without anyone or anything to make it worth her while. Her children are grown and away, the thought of getting into another relationship is, now more than ever, unthinkable, and when she wakes up in the middle of the night because she couldn't feel the steady beating of her heart, when she feels a pang in her chest while climbing the stairs, who will be there to comfort and help her get through another day?

And when she finds herself in a moment of quiet, trapped alone with her thoughts, and it's Andrea she can't get her mind off... will she be there to alleviate the ache that has nothing to do with a diseased heart?

Nigel was right: Andrea can't stay if they ever plan to say goodbye again.

* * *

"It's almost entirely gone." Andrea strokes her fingers up and down the dull, yellow bruise at the crook of Miranda's elbow, the one that matches that garish mark on her thigh. Her fingers are warm, but still arouse goosebumps on Miranda's skin as she rolls up her sleeve and slides the blood pressure cuff up her arm.

Miranda watches her as the squeezing commences, not feeling an ounce of discomfort as her eyes fixate on Andrea's. "We're more than halfway through the month," she murmurs carefully, trying intently to gauge Andrea's reaction. Just like when Andrea said "us," the word "we," the implication of _them_ , prompts a clenching sensation deep in Miranda's stomach.

Andrea's eyes lift from the changing numbers on the machine and gleam at her, and it's when she smiles that the reading on the screen jumps. "And you've been a trooper," she praises. "I knew it'd be a piece of cake for you." The moment Miranda's breath catches, the machine beeps and the cuff eases its hold.

No. If her intention is to say goodbye, she can't let Andrea stay.

* * *

There's still light outside when they finish dinner, and with this issue's publication date coming up, Miranda's work is piling up, especially in her effort to prove--to herself more than anyone else--that a heart attack could never dictate her efficiency. She excuses herself to the study while Andrea loads the dishwasher, and when she finally calls it a day hours later than she normally would, street lights shine in through the window, lighting up a vast background of dark skies.

The house is quiet and still as she makes her way downstairs. She hasn't heard from Andrea since dinner, doesn't know if she's already in bed, working as well, or, judging by the silence, even there. But as she descends onto the ground floor, in the dim lighting of the hallway a brighter glow beckons her toward the kitchen.

"Pour me one, too, will you?" she says lightly, leaning against the doorway. Whether she's startled by the sudden interruption or not, Andrea gives no indication when she turns away from the wine rack, a bottle of Château in her hands, and smiles.

"Nice try," she says and returns her eyes to the bottle. The label is stained and torn in places, some of the words unintelligible under the worn-out condition of the paper, and in an instant her gaze softens. "I can't believe you still have it."

"Did you expect me to throw it away?" Miranda's lips quirk in an almost smile.

"No, but, well-- I guess drink it." Andrea turns the bottle in her grasp as tenderly as if she were handling a newborn, the liquid moving gently inside. "It's been, what--"

"Six years," Miranda immediately finishes for her.

"God," she breathes and turns again to look at her. "Feels like longer, doesn't it?" Then she shrugs and amends, "But also not."

This time, Miranda does smile, her eyes crinkling with the movement. It feels as though no time has passed since they celebrated her sixtieth birthday, the one where Andrea stunned everyone in the dress Nigel gushed over so much. The party was more obligatory than anything, a milestone that couldn't go uncelebrated and a chance for all the who's who in her circle to suck up. Miranda, for her part, has never seen the need to put such an emphasis on just another day in the calendar--it's not like she worked very hard to be born--and could never understand getting excited about one's birthday past the age of ten. But when Andrea culminated hers with an intimate dinner of their unlikely family of four and a succeeding night of further intimacy, she could finally see the appeal. It was during that dinner that Andrea shocked her with a 1950 bottle of wine--"As old as you," she joked mischievously, bending down to wrap her arms around Miranda and rest her chin on her shoulder while Miranda sat frozen at the table, examining the wine in a tight grip--that couldn't have not made a considerable dent in her wallet.

That night could have been yesterday, and at the same time it feels like a lifetime ago.

"Why didn't you drink it?" Andrea's soft-spoken question breaks through her memories, bringing her back to her quiet kitchen.

Because, she thinks, if she drank it, it would be gone. "It was special," she admits just as softly and is rewarded with a smile so delicate, a sparkle so bright in Andrea's eyes that her chest tightens.

"Well." She clears her throat. "You should take it."

"What?" Andrea's smile slowly dissipates to make room for the bafflement that takes over her features, and Miranda pushes off the doorway and folds her arms.

"You spent an exorbitant amount of money on it, it's only fair you should have it."

When understanding dawns, Andrea hums almost inaudibly, a sound whose meaning Miranda can't quite make out. But then she leans toward the rack that holds numerous other bottles and smiles again. "You should keep it," she says quietly, carefully returning the bottle to its place while Miranda watches, unable to form a coherent thought.

"You should keep it." It's not just the words, but the way they're said, the gentle care with which Andrea puts the bottle back. The warmth in her eyes. Have a faulty heart and half a month confined to her house driven away every functioning faculty of Miranda's brain that she's reading too much into the moment? Or is Andrea aware of what she's really saying? Because, between the lines, it doesn't feel like only the wine she's telling Miranda to hold onto, only the wine she's reluctant to remove from Miranda's life as well. "What is she doing here?" Nigel asked.

Clearing her throat again, Miranda shakes her head and forces herself to regain control. "Well, feel free to help yourself to any of the other wines. Don't deprive yourself on my account; god forbid people start saying I'm a bad hostess."

The laughter that responds to her statement warms her from head to toes, sends the blood pumping in her veins straight to her cheeks. "Nah, if you're not having any, then neither am I," Andrea decides good-naturedly and leans her hip against the counter, meeting Miranda's eyes across the space between them, her smile so easy it's infectious.

Struck by inspiration, Miranda says, "Open that cupboard," and gestures with her chin to the one above the coffee maker on the other side of the kitchen.

Andrea, in turn, narrows her eyes suspiciously, but nevertheless crosses the room and does as she's told, only to let out a delighted gasp when her eyes find the treasure within. "I knew you liked it!" she exclaims, pulling out an alufoil bag of cinnamon chips--her favorite tea. "I'm onto you, Priestly."

"Make us some," Miranda instructs in order to mask the grin that wants to erupt and turns away from the kitchen. "I'll be in the living room."

Minutes later, she accepts a steaming cup from Andrea, but instead of drinking, she proceeds to watch her settle on the couch, pulling her legs under her and bowing her head down to her own cup, sniffing the sweet scent of cinnamon with a contented sigh.

"Not to ruin the mood," she says and nods toward Miranda's cup, "but this is really good for your heart. You know, reduces blood pressure, increases HDL--"

Miranda wonders if there's a mood to ruin--and why Andrea would be concerned about doing so--but still cuts her off with an irritable sigh. "Can we go one day without talking about my heart?"

"Sorry." Andrea winces. "What do you wanna talk about, then?"

"I don't know." She flicks her hand in the air. "Tell me about your job."

Looking happy to oblige, Andrea settles more comfortably against the cushions. "Well... I just sent a pretty scathing article about Trump that I hope will make some noise."

Miranda waves her hand again in dismissal. "You're wasting your time; he's never going to get elected."

"We can only hope," Andrea says and takes a small, tentative sip.

"Where?" Miranda questions after a beat.

"What? Oh. _Time_."

"Not bad."

"Nope."

"Are they paying you well?"

Chuckling, Andrea nods. "Yeah. They're paying me fine."

Miranda nods as well and takes a hot sip of her tea, feeling it settle warmly in her stomach. "I've been reading some of your articles."

"You have?" Andrea's eyes widen in surprise.

Casually, she explains, "Your name has become pretty much impossible to avoid." Whether she actively seeks it out or not is irrelevant.

"And what do you think?" Andrea asks and the subtlest hint of nervousness seeps into her tone, a residue of the same need for validation and approval a beginning journalist once sought out from one of the best editors in the industry.

"Not bad," she repeats mildly. "Although some of your pieces feel a little ingenuine."

Andrea hides her reaction expertly by bringing her cup to her lips, but Miranda doesn't miss the moment her face falls, the telltale signs that she took the criticism to heart. "Well," she says when she's swallowed, her tone growing cold in contrast with the hot liquid in her throat, "not everyone has to like my writing."

"Calm down now," Miranda placates at once. "I didn't say your writing was bad. But I know your writing, I know what it's like when you're passionate about what you're writing, and with some articles it simply doesn't look like you put your heart into them. It looks more like a job."

"Well," Andrea says again, but it's obvious Miranda's words appeased her. She looks down at the tea in her cup and admits, "Sometimes you put your heart in it and sometimes you have to pay rent."

That elicits a chuckle out of Miranda, who leans back against her armchair, feeling more at peace than she has in a very long time. Maybe three years. "What about your apartment?" she's reminded. "I can't imagine it's worth paying rent while spending a month away. Do you ever go back?"

"Sometimes," Andrea confirms, "when I'm running errands or out on interviews, just to make sure everything's okay, you know, that the place hasn't burned down or anything. My neighbor is watering my plants--I gave her a key."

"Is it still the same one on Ludlow?" Miranda inquires.

"Mhm." She nods, then smiles knowingly. "The girls told you?" Raising an eyebrow in a "what do you think?" gesture, Miranda prompts her to go on, "Yeah, they used to come when they had breaks from college. Did they tell you about the time they almost set fire to my kitchen?"

"They did not." Miranda straightens her back.

"I'm not sure what they were trying to do." She frowns in confusion, but smirks nonetheless. "I think we should have given them some basic cooking tips instead of take-out menus. Well, you," she corrects herself as an afterthought.

 _We_. Ignoring the renewed clenching in her stomach, Miranda raises her cup. "Better your kitchen than mine." Andrea lets out a disbelieving laugh before Miranda takes a sip and adds, "You should have stayed in the Upper East Side." Then she gets a pointed stare, the one that tells her without words that not everyone gets the same amount of zeros in their paycheck that she does, a fact Andrea has always loved to drill home.

It's shaping up to be their most sincere, tension-free conversation in years. But of course, Miranda has always had a penchant for self-destruction: the biggest evidence is sitting right in front of her. Looking away, she circles the rim of her cooling cup with the tip of her index finger and utters as nonchalantly as if she were inquiring about the time, "Isn't there anyone missing you while you're here?"

"Besides my plants? No." Andrea's response is immediate and as casual as if she were giving her the time, and for once, it's impossible for Miranda to tell if she's faking or not. Of course, Andrea has never been one for faking anything, but when she gazes back at her, she sees the knowing look, the lips whose corners lift with her shrug. "No one at the moment." She shakes her head, her voice low.

"At the moment?" Miranda hears herself press, and that's when Andrea begins to look uncomfortable.

"There was... someone." She shrugs again. "It ended about a year ago."

"How long?"

She raises her eyes to the ceiling, as if calculating in her head. "Like, six months? Give or take."

"Woman?" Miranda can't seem to stop, feeling herself being drawn further and further to new information as inevitably as a magnetic pull, out of her control and futile to fight.

"Uh, no," Andrea answers, scratching the back of her neck, and gives her a small smile. "Not this time."

"Why did it end?"

"It just did," she replies lightly, but Miranda detects the reticence in her voice, the disinclination to divulge details or dwell on the subject at all. "We wanted different things."

Miranda, against every mechanism of self-preservation, tries to picture that particular breakup, and the relationship that preceded it. Did they live together? Was this anonymous man ever introduced to Andrea's family, and Andrea to his? Did Miranda's own daughters get to meet him on their visits to Andrea's apartment? And when it finally ended, did the relationship dissolve like theirs, every interaction more poisonous than the last until not a viable part was left to salvage? Who called it off? Who was the one that walked away? And just how wounded and despaired was Andrea when it was all over?

"You?" Andrea surprises Miranda by asking, jerking her out of her thoughts.

"Me?" Her eyes grow, taken off guard, which is when Andrea's smile broadens, turns sly.

"I saw the pictures from _Runway_ 's last benefit," she confesses conspiratorially. If she didn't know any better, Miranda would believe they were a couple of old friends, catching each other up on all the sordid details of their lives. As it is, it seems Andrea is entirely unperturbed digging into a love life that she's no longer a part of. "Who was that guy you were parading around? He was cute."

"Please," Miranda balks. "You know that was all for show. People start talking when you're repeatedly showing up to events alone." Nevermind that Andrea, like the rest of the world, would be convinced that Miranda would ever again try to strike up a relationship with a man after getting a taste of what she really wants. After getting a taste of Andrea. But if she were to bring a woman to a formal event, it'd be different. Perhaps _because_ of her preferance, it would feel more real, more intimate, and Miranda, even after three years, is still not ready for something real and intimate. A handsome man who can fit into a tux and suffer silently by her side throughout a whole, boring evening is, exactly as Andrea put it, a pawn to parade around and silence all the vultures busy wondering about her lack of companionship.

"Is that all he was for?" Andrea's quiet question penetrates her internal monologue, which is when she gets another look at her face. The smile is gone, there's no more gleam of playfulness in her eye, wanting to get at the juiciest gossip. Her tone was almost interrogating, as if not quite believing Miranda's explanation, and beneath that, underneath the surface, was the uncertainty and the vulnerability Miranda had yet to see since Andrea's wirlwind return into her life. Under all that lies the answer to Miranda's question.

"I'm sorry." Andrea shakes her head in the face of Miranda's silence, her renewed, albeit awkward, smile accompanied by rosy cheeks. "That is so none of my business."

"That's all he was for," Miranda whispers earnestly, feeling nothing but the pounding in her chest and a bright, dangerous sliver of hope. She watches Andrea's nod, the muscles in her face relaxing, and that sliver slowly widens.

"I've found men are worse for my heart than steaks," she jokes, trying to lighten the strange mood that has settled over the atmosphere. Andrea offers a half-hearted smile in response, but doesn't quite play along.

"Can I ask you a question?" she inquires hesitantly when the ensuing silence becomes too much, too charged, too real. Miranda braces in preparation, leaning toward the coffee table to deposit her tea cup, and nods. "What did it feel like?"

"The heart attack?" she guesses after a moment of puzzlement, catching Andrea's line of sight, the quick glance at her chest. Andrea nods.

Inhaling deeply, she lifts her feet onto the armchair cushion, leaning her head back to stare at the ceiling. In an instant, she's transported back to that night, reliving every sensation, every ache, every feeling. "It felt like getting kicked in the chest by a horse," she bites out, immediately feeling the phantom pain between her ribs, remembering the breath leaving her in a loud gasp. She recalls standing in her hallway, surrounded by shadows. The Book had slipped from her clammy hand, landing on the floor with a loud thud that echoed off of the tall walls, the sound dull and far away in her buzzing ears. Her fingers dug into the slick wood of the cabinet, nails scraping the polished surface in her attempt to overcome the sensation, to remain upright. Hunched over, she turned around and--

"The railings on the stairs," she recounts, "it looked like they were blowing like twigs in the wind. I couldn't see straight, my head was spinning." She tried to climb the stairs, telling herself a few minutes in bed would alleviate the sharp, unbearable pain. "It just kept getting worse. I don't think I got past the third step before I couldn't move anymore. I felt it everywhere: in my arms, my throat."

"You're the one who called 911?" Andrea asks faintly, her face ashen. Miranda nods. Who else? She describes the physical aspects, to Andrea if no one else, willingly enough, but she intentionally leaves out the worst part of that night.

While she details the pain and the Book and the stairs, she doesn't tell Andrea about the immense loneliness she experienced in those moments, the debilitating fear she felt as she stood in her home, a hand clutching at her chest, legs threatening to give out, unable to breathe, unable to think about anything except the fact that she was all alone. That she was going to die, right there on the floor. A sixty-six-year-old woman with no one to see or hear, discovered only the next day when she didn't show up for work, her children notified by a stranger who couldn't care less about her death or their grief.

She was all alone, and the pain of that realization hurt ten times worse than the one in her heart.

"It just happened? Out of nowhere?" Andrea asks cautiously, but there's also a touch of doubt there. She knows Miranda well enough to know the truth.

"I may have..." Miranda begins offhandedly, "felt a little under the weather in the days leading up. Nothing alarming: just some fatigue, maybe a little more than that." At Andrea's disapproving glare, she rolls her eyes. "Don't give me that look. I'm sixty-six-years-old; if I ran to the hospital every time I experienced a mild inconvience, I'd never get anything done."

"I can't believe you let it get this bad," Andrea claims, like she has every right to.

"What's done is done. You can't turn back the clock."

But Andrea is not so quick to let it go. Shaking her head, she inquires, "Why didn't you take better care of yourself?"

"I didn't give myself a heart attack." Miranda provides a glare of her own, feeling her face heating up. "I eat healthy, I work out regularly. God knows I'm in excellent shape. I apologize I didn't have anyone here to snatch the salt shaker from my hand."

Lowering her head, Andrea presses her lips together and slowly nods in concession. Her tea no longer sends steams into the air, and she turns the cup carefully in her hand, not drinking. "It's weird, isn't it?" she murmurs. "This. Me being here."

It's the first time either of them has really acknowledged the oddity of their circumstance, and at once Miranda's ire vanishes. "I mean, this used to be my home," Andrea goes on with a mirthless chuckle. "Now I'm just... I don't know, passing by? I still know where everything is, everything looks and feels and even smells the same. I don't even wake up in the morning and feel disoriented, you know? Like you do when you don't sleep at home." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes, her thumb running up and down the cup's handle. "But... I don't really belong here anymore."

Breathing in through her nose, Miranda licks her lips before pursing them in thought, looking toward the window on the other side of the room, the lights of the house reflecting in the glass against the darkness outside. "Is that how you feel?"

Everything has become very quiet. Up until a few minutes ago, she could hear honking cars from the neighboring street, muffled chatter outside the window, the ticking of the clock above the fireplace. Now there's an eerie silence that envelopes the room in its arms, secluding it in a bubble separate from the rest of the world. Andrea's no longer looking at her when she shrugs a shoulder, her straight hair hiding her lowered face.

"When Cassidy was here," she starts again, "she said something--I don't know if you heard--"

"I heard," Miranda supplies, knowing instantly what she's referring to, and at last, Andrea's head lifts, their eyes meeting. She smiles slightly, nodding.

"I had a feeling you did." Then she looks around, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Miranda's gaze follows her as she takes in every detail of the living room, taking in every detail of Andrea in turn. Her face has matured, her hair grown longer. Her eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier, her lips pink and plump when she releases the bottom one from the grip of her teeth. "I do miss it, you know," she finally admits, her voice just an octave above a whisper. "This house. Lots of memories."

As silence descends once again, Miranda lowers her feet to the ground. Above the fireplace, she hears the clock again, hears the cars honking on the main street. Watches Andrea tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and smile morosely.

Regardless of what happens or has happened with them, one thing remains true. "This is your home," she says as softly as if she were speaking to a slumbering child, and still it's enough to get Andrea's solemn attention. "Your not living here doesn't change that."

With Andrea's big, soulful eyes following her every movement, she gets up and, on her way out of the room, pauses for the briefest moment to rest a hand on Andrea's shoulder.

She's decided. She managed to bring Andrea back into her life, and this time she won't be saying goodbye.


	8. The One with the Sandwich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a second to thank all of you for all the wonderful comments. It's amazing to see how this story resonates with so many of you and read your own personal experiences and I'm so happy I'm able to do it justice.

**Day 18**

  
The next day, while Andrea is out working, Miranda finds herself unable to concentrate on doing the same. Unfinished notes sit patiently on her desk, her laptop screen stares glaringly at her, urging her to use it, and despite the heavy workload left to perfect her first from-home issue before it goes to press and required to dedicate to the next one, she pushes her chair back and gets to her feet.

It's not so much her daily walk as it's simply aimless wandering around the house, but she's sure Andrea would approve of the health benefits all the same. A strange fact occurs to her as she strolls through the third floor hallway, absently running her hand across a white wall of framed pictures: before her heart attack restricted her to it, she'd never really paid attention to this house, never taken the time to study the décor or appreciate the personal touches, all the aspects she'd put so much thought and time into to design her perfect house and make it a home.

This wall of pictures she passes every day on her way to and from her bedroom, but never stops to look at her daughters' childish, freckled faces, still rounded with baby fat and impossible, for the untrained eye (and sometimes their own father and grandparents), to tell apart. The art works, carefully selected and placed by her, are as familiar as on every occasion she sweeps by them, blurry blobs of colors and shapes that would make her stop in her tracks if they suddenly changed, but for the life of her she couldn't describe their details. For a jarring moment, she feels like a stranger in her own house.

Oh, she likes to be home as much as the next person, cherishes the moment she returns from a busy day of work or an obligatory dinner to her own quiet space where she can remove her couture and relax her posture. Her study she frequents nearly as often as her bedroom, both of which have been attentively designed and decorated to fit her taste and comfort, and the den has become her favorite room to spend her downtime in, her favorite chair's cushions softened under her frequent weight. But the upstairs dining room is reserved for dinner parties and holidays, the television in the entertainment room has been turned on scarcely since the girls' departure, their rooms Miranda has very few reasons to enter, the guest rooms none at all. With a cook and a cleaning crew on her payroll, she can hardly locate kitchen utensils or a simple broom, and fresh flowers magically appear around the house before their predecessors have a chance to wilt.

This month has been her opportunity to get reacquainted with the place, as well as some other things.

Quite accidentally, she finds herself outside a closed door, one floor up.

The smell is the first thing that greets her when she pushes it open, familiar and dizzying. It comes from the frequent use of the bed sheets, the perfume Andrea squirted on herself before leaving, her overall presence in the room.

It's the first time she's set foot in there since Andrea's arrival at the house, and quite a while before that, but now she slowly lowers herself to the edge of the bed, the same one Andrea occupied mere hours earlier. It's cool now, the sheet pulled taut against the mattress and the blanket spread over it in perfect contrast to the careless mess Andrea used to leave in their shared bed--it's as if she feels uncomfortable being herself in this house, indeed like a guest, turning everything into a respectful presentation--but Miranda feels her in there all the same. She barely refrains from pulling a pillow to her nose for a sharper whiff of the smell.

There's a thick novel on the nightstand, its spine cracked from overusage and a bookmark poking out from between the pages. Next to it are a tube of hand lotion, half-flattened and bent over, and a glass from the kitchen, room-temperature water still filling the bottom.

The window shelters are wide open, the curtains withdrawn to bathe the space in natural light, tiny, barely-visible specks of dust dancing in the late morning sunlight. On the hanger in the corner, Miranda finds the white, button-down pajamas and the clothes Andrea wore the day before.

Getting up, she proceeds toward the small closet, where the rest of Andrea's clothes either hang on a rack or occupy the shelves, folded, and almost absentmindedly, she runs the tips of her fingers across the different fabrics.

On the other side of the room, on the dresser, there are jewelry boxes: necklaces tangled within their confines, rings filling a square bottom in a disorganized heap. Miranda opens the wooden, dome-shaped lid of one box and carefully extracts a bronze necklace from inside: inheritance from Andrea's grandmother, as ugly as Miranda remembered it. "Not everything is about fashion," Andrea once told her, defending the cherished piece of jewelry.

She might return to her own apartment from time to time, may even be there at that precise moment, taking a break from her jobs--the paid one and the voluntary--but for all intents and purposes, Andrea's life is right here. All of her necessary belongings, the items she uses on a daily basis, couldn't live without--they're all in this room, Miranda's house, uprooted once again, much like their owner.

In the en suite bathroom, her suspicion is confirmed when she finds a familiar sight. Unlike the bed, this room Andrea did not bother to tidy up should an inspection occur, and on the counter, hair ties are scattered absently, a makeup brush has never been returned to the cup holding its siblings, a mascara tube lies so close to the edge it could roll off given the slightest push. The sink is stained with hardened toothpaste, the faucet marked with dried, unwiped water. It's complete chaos and an utter wonder, even after all these years, that Andrea still manages to function in it.

Planting her hands on the cool marble to either side of the sink, muscle memory almost makes Miranda reach for the hair brush in the corner, as she's done on countless occasions prior, and clean out the clumps of dark hairs left in-between the bristles. Instead, she catches herself unscrewing a jar of facial moisturizer and before she knows it, she's scooped a small goop onto the tips of her index and middle fingers and brought it up to her face, rubbing the cream in slow, small circles into her cheek. It's a good lotion, but it doesn't meet the needs of her skin. Even so, she proceeds to drag her fingers under her nostrils, where she sniffs the scent of lavender and bergamot, so familiar it brings tears to her closed eyes. She goes on to lower the fingers down the slope of her chin, onto her neck, and across her chest, and it's only when they encounter the V-cut of her shirt that her eyes open, confronting her with her reflection in the mirror, the moisture blurring her vision, the longing in her countenance. And that brings her back down to Earth.

What is she doing? What is she doing with Andrea's possessions, what is she doing in Andrea's room?

What has become of her?

* * *

That night, she can't sleep, no matter how hard she tries. She turned in early, her perpetual exhaustion dragging her compliant legs up to her bedroom shortly after dinner, but an hour passed, and then another one, and Miranda still can't bring her mind to abandon its plaguing, persistent thoughts and shut down.

She stares up at the ceiling--the longer her eyes are fixed on it, the clearer it becomes in the dark, the moonlight protruding into the room through cracks in the curtains granting it a dim, blue glow--and runs her fingers back and forth across the edge of the blanket draped over her chest, her other hand resting on the pillow over her head, brushing through tips of short hair.

She can still smell the lavender on her skin, after a long day of activity, a shower, her own skincare routine. The floral scent dances underneath her nostrils, so subtle she has to seek it out. It used to be available to her so regularly, a smell so common and constant there was no reason not to take it for granted, and she wonders for the first time how long it took for it to evaporate from the pillow on the other side of the bed following Andrea's move. If she hadn't been so angry, so hurt, she might have had half a mind to savor it before that, too, disappeared from her world.

She tries to tell herself that she's not imagining, that she's not turning into an even sadder version of herself. That Andrea didn't inquire about her love life like a friend and didn't reproach her indifference about her health like an uninvested stranger. There was something the previous night, a palpable change that Andrea couldn't not have felt as well.

She said she missed the house. Is that all she misses, a physical building with walls and furniture? Or the home that was left with a substantial hole in it the day she walked out, an emptiness only she could fill? Because however hard Miranda has been pushing her away, she hasn't left again. Is it the pity or is it more?

In search of water, or a distraction, she exits the room and pads along the hardwood floor of the hallway, toward the stairs. On the landing, however, she stops in her tracks. Light travels up the flight of stairs, accompanied by quiet, unintelligible voices, and it takes her a few more steps down the steps to realize it's the sound of the television in the sitting room.

Water forgotten, she stops her journey on the second floor and, sure enough, when she turns the corner, she finds Andrea curled up on the corner of a couch, smiling mindlessly at the happenings on the screen.

"Couldn't sleep?" Miranda's voice alerts her to her presence, head turning with a start to see her approaching the couch.

"Haven't gone yet," she clarifies.

"Trying to tire yourself out?" Miranda guesses at the exact moment Andrea says, "Just trying to tire myself out," and the overlap draws a chuckle from both of them.

Miranda turns to see what's on the screen when a young David Schwimmer exclaims, "Someone ate the only good thing going on in my life!" followed by pre-recorded laughter. "Well, that show will do it."

Defensively, Andrea protests, "This is funny!"

"It's infantile," she disagrees, but, funny or not, takes a seat on the other end of the couch. From her side, a vast space separating them on the blue cushions, Andrea smiles.

It's different from any other time they've ever sat down together in front of the television--Andrea doesn't cuddle up to Miranda, Miranda doesn't tickle her fingernails across the back of Andrea's neck, they don't comment on the plot or actors--but somehow, it's comforting, just existing in the same space instead of apart. Gradually, Miranda begins to relax, the noises in her head vaporizing as she immerses herself in the light story, the lack of drama and angst. About halfway through the episode, her eyelids even start to get heavy.

And then David stutters dramatically, "You threw my sandwich away," and from the other side of the couch, along with the laughing track of the show, Andrea giggles, her laughter intensifying with the progression of the scene. It's such a hearty sound, so genuine and devoid of any pretense or censorship. She leans her chin against a closed fist, her eyes crinkling at the screen while her shoulders shake with her amusement, and out of nowhere, Miranda's own eyes sting.

While laughter roars from the television, while Andrea's is dwindling down into a chuckle, Miranda quickly whips her head to the side and wipes at her eyes. But perhaps it's the mere acknowledgement of the tears that makes it worse, because as soon as those are gone, a new wave emerges, and the involuntarily loud sniffle that tries to banish it back from whence it came at last draws Andrea's attention, unwantedly diverting it from the show to her.

"Hey," she says in alarm, "what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Miranda snaps, her chest and neck blotched pink with embarrassment. Andrea, of course, is not fooled.

Scooting close enough that, even without touching, Miranda can feel her body heat, she gently asks, "Are you crying?" And when Miranda refuses to respond, a hand tentatively touches her arm.

" _Don't_ touch me," she sharply orders, but despite Andrea's immediate withdrawal, the mere contact puts a lump in her throat, burns behind her eyelids, causes a tear to slip down her cheek before she can prevent it.

It's mortifying. It's the worst thing to have happened to her all month, heart attack aside, her mind and its stupid, uncontrollable moods getting the upper hand with a sadness and despair she can't even put her finger on. She doesn't know why she's crying, can't pinpoint a specific reason other than all of them combined: her heartbreak, her loneliness, the fear for her life, a yearning for something she can't quite put into words. And when Andrea cautiously whispers, "Miranda," it all comes pouring out.

Her chest contracts so painfully she can't draw breath or move to flee the scene, the lump in her throat expanding until she thinks she might throw up. She can feel her heartbeat everywhere--her chest, her neck, her temples--thunderous and furious. And through all of this, the tears keep coming unbidden, urgent gasps for oxygen making her dizzy, greying her vision. She knows it now: this time she won't survive it.

"I'm having another heart attack," she gasps out, hunched over on the edge of the couch, fingers digging hysterically into her chest.

"You're not having another heart attack," Andrea's distant voice, muffled by the sound of her frantic breathing and the blood roaring in her ears, argues firmly.

"I am," she cries.

"Miranda. Miranda, listen to me," Andrea beseeches, beginning to sound almost as frenetic as Miranda feels.

"I'm having--"

"You're not having a heart attack."

"Call 911," Miranda demands, tasting the saltiness of her tears.

"Miranda, calm down."

"Call-- oh, god," she sobs, doubling over, unable to breathe or muster words or do anything but cry and feel the pounding of her heart. And the next moment, lost in the terror, she feels herself being pulled, moved up from her position until she's wrapped in an embrace so tight she can't escape. It takes her longer moments to realize that it's Andrea's embrace, her arms around her body strong and unyielding, holding Miranda to her until she has no more fight left in her, nothing left to do but give in and cling back, grasping at the shirt on Andrea's back while new sobs are yanked from her throat, rocking her body, her tears staining the plain cotton at Andrea's shoulder.

She doesn't know how long she stays in Andrea's hug, the words "It's okay, you're okay" whispered repeatedly into her ear until it's quiet. The television must have been switched off, too, because she hears nothing but her own hiccuping breaths, slowly calming down. The tears are still coming, but these ones are different: hot and languid in their descent down the sticky streaks on her face. She lets herself rest a cheek on Andrea's shoulder, her warmth seeping into Miranda's skin and spreading throughout her lethargic body.

* * *

When she opens her eyes, they're heavy and swollen, dried tears framing them. They blink with difficulty, and the first thing they blurrily land on is a glass vase of white peonies, standing in the center of the coffee table. The next thing to permeate her consciousness is the fact that she's lying on her side, her head propped up by a throw pillow. The last thing she registers is a tickling sensation in her scalp, fingers running through her hair.

With a jolt, she sits up, and when Andrea's face comes into focus, everything else begins to clear up as well: her humiliating breakdown, the warmth of her tears, the fierceness of Andrea's hold. And then shame and regret fill her at the spectacle she's made of herself. And anger.

"Hey," Andrea whispers, her worry evident in the look she gives her. "How are you?"

Biting the insides of her cheeks, Miranda tries to gather her thoughts and prays like hell that she doesn't look as disgraced as she feels. "This didn't happen," she hisses, forcing herself to look straight into Andrea's eyes to convey her seriousness, and when those soften with compassion, she gets up and wills her legs not to shake as she heads toward the stairs.

Behind her, Andrea calls, "Miranda--"

" _No_ ," she snaps, turning back with a pointed, steady finger. "You left. You gave up. You don't get to swoop back in when the dust has settled and play Mother Teresa."

"Are you serious?" Andrea responds in bewilderment, getting to her feet as well.

"Why did you come back?" Miranda finally demands.

"What?" She frowns, obviously having a hard time catching up.

"Why did you come back?" she repeats, enunciating every word. "I didn't need you. I was doing just fine without you."

Placing both hands on her hips, Andrea squares her shoulders. She's caught on. "You needed help--"

"Not from you."

"The doctor said--"

"Not from you." Miranda takes a step closer. Now, instead of tears, her eyes are burning with uncontained fire. " _You_ decided it was over. You walked out of seven years like it was nothing. What kind of game are you playing?"

"Is that what you think?" Andrea asks, and this time she's the one choking up, her words coming out watery and strangled, her eyes glistening. "That it was nothing for me? Walking out that door was the hardest thing I ever did."

"And yet you still did it."

"I had to!" she cries. Miranda, on the other hand, has no more tears left to cry, only three years of pent-up fury to release. "I couldn't stay anymore, don't you get that?"

"And here you are now. What a saint." She narrows her eyes in disdain.

"I'm not a saint," Andrea argues indignantly.

"A martyr, then." Sniffling, Andrea momentarily turns her head to wipe under her eyes with the back of her finger. Miranda takes a few steps closer. "No, I don't get it. I don't get how you could call everything quits. You, who never quits on anything. You quit on us."

"Will you stop pinning it all on me?" yells Andrea and the sound is so loud in the nighttime that it startles Miranda, but Andrea pushes on. "'You, you, you.' It wasn't all me. Stop pretending it was all my fault, that _you're_ the martyr. _I_ didn't leave; we broke up! We agreed it was the right thing to do."

" _We_ didn't agree on any such thing," Miranda seethes. "You agreed. You decided for both of us that it was enough."

" _I had to_ \--"

"I fought!" Miranda presses a vehement finger to her chest, where just earlier she could feel the hammering of her heart. Now it's doubled its speed, she feels it in her throat, but she pays no mind to it. "I never stopped fighting for us!"

"Because that's what you do," Andrea accuses. "You fight. You're always fighting, everyone and everything, and you're always expecting to win. You didn't fight for us; you just fought for the sake of fighting because that's what you do best."

"And you just walked away like you do best," Miranda throws callously, watching the color rise on Andrea's scrunched up, tearful face.

"Can you, _one time_ , not bring up FUCKING PARIS?!" she shouts, her voice coming out raspy, straining against the volume. "I make a mistake _once_ , at twenty-three--a child--and it's held over my head for the rest of my life!"

"People don't change," spits Miranda.

"Well, then, you stayed the same cold-hearted woman who can't even accept a simple act of kindness," Andrea retorts. Miranda doesn't have to see her reflection to know the exact moment the color drains from her face. "I was miserable," Andrea continues. "I can't even remember the good times anymore. How long was I supposed to draw it out? Until we killed each other?"

"We could have fixed things."

"We couldn't have."

"If you'd stayed and worked hard--"

"I didn't want to work hard, don't you understand? I didn't want my relationship to be a chore, I didn't want love to be yet another fight!"

At the same time she exhales a heavy breath, Miranda does the same, and the silence that follows the yelling is as loud as the cessation of a drumbeat.

"It was over." Andrea shrugs helplessly. "It was over long before I left." Miranda doesn't reply, just slumps her shoulders and rubs a tired hand over her face. "What are we doing?" Andrea sighs.

"I don't know."

"We've already had this fight a thousand times before."

"I know."

"That's why we broke up. There's not much elsewhere to go from here."

"I know."

Dropping heavily onto the couch, she buries her head in her hands before glancing sideways at Miranda. "Are you okay?"

"I'm going to sleep," Miranda answers stiffly and turns toward the stairs. "Goodnight." Behind her, Andrea doesn't call her back.

* * *

**Day 19**

  
Leaning her hands against her bathroom countertop, Miranda glowers at the person staring back at her in the mirror. Her eyes are hollow, framed in red, the evidence of her lack of sleep as clear as day. Bowing her head into the sink, she opens the faucet and splashes cold water on her face, trying to rub the fatigue away. When that doesn't work, she grabs her concealer tube, hiding the dark circles under a heavy layer, but she's still too rattled, too upset.

Opening the mirror-covered cabinet, she snatches a white packet off a shelf, opens it, and pushes a blue tablet out of the foil pack, placing it on her tongue. Surely a little _Valium_ wouldn't kill her. Running the water again, she cups her hands under the stream and fills her mouth before throwing it back with a gulp. Then she returns the packet to the shelf, closes the door, and scrapes her palm on the edge of the mirror.

Hissing, she presses on the cut. When she removes her hand, she looks down to find both of them covered in blood, one little scratch gushing endlessly. She puts her hand under the water, where the dark red substance swirls into the hole in the sink in a lighter shade, and when she removes it, it continues to bleed. She presses on the wound, washes some more, but the blood keeps coming, so much from such an insignificant cut that she thinks she might run out.

* * *

"Good morning," Andrea greets her somberly when she enters the kitchen.

"Morning."

"Do you want some cof-- oh, my god, what happened?" Her eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when she catches sight of Miranda's bandaged hand, the white fabric soaked in red despite the many layers wrapped around it. In a matter of seconds, she's by Miranda's side.

"Nothing," Miranda grinds out.

"You're bleeding!" Andrea gasps and grabs Miranda's hand without permission, looking for the end of the bandage.

"I cut myself," Miranda grouses. "It's nothing."

"Oh, god, okay," Andrea tries to stay calm when the wound is uncovered, blood oozing out onto both their hands anew.

"It's nothing, just leave it--"

"Let's get you to the sink, we'll wash--"

"I already did that-- stop, just--"

"It's the blood thinners," Andrea explains in a hurry, pressing with her own hand.

"Stop--"

"Let's try to wash--"

"Andrea, STOP!" Miranda shouts, the rarity of the sound reverberating throughout the large house. It seems to still echo around them when the commotion has waned and Andrea lifts up her head, staring at her with wide eyes.

"Just stop!" Miranda continues. "I don't need your help, I don't need you here, I don't _want_ you here! If you'd just listened from the beginning instead of _imposing_ yourself on me... Just _leave_ , go already!"

Andrea's hand slips from hers, a few red droplets falling to the hardwood beneath their feet. Then Miranda watches her quietly stride to the kitchen island, where she grabs her phone from one side and her wallet from the other, and breeze past her on the way out. Miranda stays put, listening to the footsteps behind her until they stop at the end of the hall. Soon thereafter, they're louder--shoes hitting the floor of the foyer--and when she hears the door open, Miranda turns around. "Andrea," she says, but the clicking sound of the door silences her, leaving her alone in her big, empty house.


	9. The Most Dysfunctional Broken-Up Couple in the World

**Day 20**

  
The elevator opens and she whips off her sunglasses, exiting onto the floor with a loud clacking of her heels, her steps sure, her head held high.

Yesterday was the longest day in her life. After, at long last, stopping the bleeding and rebandaging her hand, she cooked her own breakfast, lunch, and dinner, took her meds without reminders, checked her blood pressure herself, and worked until her eyes burned. When her back started threatening to fuse into the office chair, it was already dark outside, the open windows in the house casting every room that wasn't lit up by a lamp in shadows. At that point, she finally left the study and started wandering the floors again, touring the various rooms without paying mind to a single thing, like a luminescent ghost strolling through an old castle, there but not in any tangible way. All the rooms felt foreign, all right, as if she'd gone to sleep in one house and woken up that morning in another.

Three years she'd lived alone--her daughters in college and Andrea gone--and in those three years she'd gotten perfectly accustomed to that reality. Less than three weeks with Andrea back in her vicinity and she no longer knew how to function without her presence, fill her days so their deathly emptiness didn't seep into her bones.

She should have known that, one way or another, she would end up in the guest room again, sitting on the edge of the bed and running her hands across the soft, satin sheets. All of Andrea's belongings were still there, exactly as she'd left them. Wherever she was in that late hour--possibly her own house--she didn't have her pajamas or frequently worn outfits, didn't have her toiletries and skincare products. The room stood still, frozen in time, waiting, like Miranda, for her return.

In a moment of hysterical musing, Miranda laughed--the sound bitter and ugly to her own ears--at the prospect of Andrea coming back to remove the last of her possessions from her house before deserting it again, like a vicious cycle they were both bound to be trapped in for eternity.

Getting up, she walked over to the hanger behind her and stroked her fingers down the soft sleeve of a long, pink cardigan. It didn't have a designer label, couldn't have cost more than $20, but it smelled like Andrea and before she knew what she was doing, Miranda was sliding her arms into the sleeves, pulling the light material around her midst. Gazing out of the window at the dimly lit street below, the cars pulling into their parking spots at the culmination of the day, the yellow lights in townhouses' windows, Miranda held a lapel up to her nose and sniffed the subtle scent left behind.

Now she strides down the corridor of   
_NewYork-Presbyterian_ 's cardiac ward, ignoring the soreness in her legs after half an hour on her cycling bike at Jin's instructions that morning, waiting to get Dr. Sanghvi's verdict on her recovery and her approval stamp on her return to work in ten days.

She walks the main corridor of the floor, throwing quick glances at signs and various doors in her search for the correct way to go, when from the other end of the corridor, heading in her direction, she sees her.

Andrea spots her immediately, but her expression remains blank when their eyes meet. Miranda stares back, but doesn't smile or frown or nod either, doesn't call her name or wave, but in her chest, something heavy and suffocating releases at once.

Andrea came.

Without a word, she turns the corner into a smaller corridor and Andrea follows suit.

* * *

"Well, first of all, how are you?" Dr. Sanghvi turns away from her computer monitor, folding her arms on the desktop.

"Fine," Miranda answers tightly.

"How have the past few weeks been?"

"Fine."

"Any pain or discomfort?"

"No." Miranda turns her head away.

"And the mood?"

"Can we just get this over with?" she interrupts in exasperation, feeling Andrea's rigid posture next to her, feeling the tension spread into her own body.

"Well, I have your blood test results." Dr. Sanghvi looks back to the screen, clicking a few times on the mouse. Her eyes scan the words before her as she summarizes them for Miranda. "Your cholesterol is great," she murmurs approvingly and glances at Andrea. "How has she been eating?"

"Mostly fish and lean meat. Lots of vegetables," Andrea replies. "Eggs. No salt or fats."

"I see that," Dr. Sanghvi confirms. "Low-level LDL, good HDL reading, low amounts of triglycerides. Let's see... I like the look of your plasma ceramides... BNP is a little high, but that's to be expected. We'll just keep monitoring that. Troponin T..." she continues, but Miranda drowns out the rest of the information and indecipherable words. Instead, she focuses on Andrea's body heat next to her, the occasional peeks directed at her, her voice recounting the last three weeks in a way that takes all the tension out. Andrea came.

* * *

They walk together into the townhouse after a long, silent car ride. In the late morning hours, the heavy traffic on the streets delayed what would otherwise have been a five minute drive, none of the other drivers on the road perturbed by Andrea's stiff posture, tightly furled fists, head turned 180 degrees away from Miranda, or caring about the tightness of every muscle in Miranda's body, the almost physical need to ensure Andrea didn't open the door at the next traffic light and bolt.

In the end, she didn't bolt. Standing in the foyer, unspeaking, they stare at the house, and then at each other.

Neither of them initiates it so much as they seem to be pulled by some invisible force, as if both of them had the exact same thought at the exact same moment, but by the time their lips are pressed bruisingly together, neither can stop.

When they stumble together into Miranda's bedroom, she's lost her shoes and Andrea's blouse is somewhere between the first and third floors. Miranda just barely registers the softness of her mattress under her back before Andrea's body is on her, Miranda's legs bending and spreading to make room in-between. Her heart is racing, her head is swimming, and she can't distinguish Andrea's hard breathing from her own.

It's familiar and strange all at once, like puzzle pieces left jagged and dilapidated after one too many damages, managing the connection even though it's not entirely right. Andrea knows just where to kiss, how to touch; Miranda recognizes the warmth and feel of her skin. But it's not gentle, it's not loving; it's needy and urgent and frenzied, a physical release for everything that can't be said in words. They don't quite fit together anymore, and at the same time it's like coming home.

"Is this a mistake?" Andrea pants, but leans down to kiss frantically at Miranda's neck. Her perfume is musky and foreign to Miranda, a new smell she doesn't recognize, and her loose hair tickles Miranda's skin like silken streamers.

"No," Miranda gasps, arching her back. She wedges her hands between them, pushing Andrea just enough to roughly tug the delicate fabric of her blouse out of her skirt, but that's as far as she gets before Andrea's lips drive her out of her mind again, her tongue stealing into her mouth. With a muffled, strangled moan, she grabs at the back of Andrea's head, half steadying it so she can kiss back and half holding it in place so Andrea can't withdraw.

"We shouldn't," Andrea whispers against her lips, but doesn't stop. Her kisses lower down Miranda's jawline and neck, Miranda's blouse rubbing against her lace-clad breasts. She slips her hand up Miranda's thigh, drags up her skirt, and-- "Oh, my god," she gasps at the large, yellow bruise. Miranda squirms. "Does it hurt?"

"It doesn't," she replies, struggling to breathe, and pulls Andrea back up to her lips, fumbling blindly for the clasp of her bra.

"Is this okay?" Andrea mumbles, resting more of her weight on top of her.

"Mhm," Miranda moans.

"I don't wanna hurt you."

"You're not."

"I feel like I'm--"

"You're not hurting me," Miranda grinds out, catching Andrea's lower lip between her teeth, then releasing it to lick it instead. She abandons the stubborn bra to run shaky fingers over Andrea's ribs to her front, feeling the resultant shiver her body gives.

"Maybe we should sto--" Andrea begins, but the rest of her protest is swallowed by Miranda's mouth, her tongue stroking everywhere it can reach, the need to consume and be consumed so grand she thinks she might spontaneously combust.

Her skin is on fire, her mind is whirling. An unbearable ache begins in the pit of her stomach, expanding further and further until it threatens to eat her up from the inside. Her panties grow damp, her back sweaty, her limbs feeble. She writhes and groans, clutching helplessly at anything she can get at in anticipation for what's to come.

"I can't," Andrea breathes out, and a second later, her back hits the mattress, leaving Miranda's body exposed, cold, and bereft.

Her blouse is wrinkled, her skirt riding up her thighs, and her skin still tingles with the memory of Andrea's lips and tongue. Trying to catch her breath, she stares at the ceiling and pinches her lips. "You can't because you worry about me or because you think this is a mistake?"

After a moment of panting, Andrea determines, "Both."

They lie side by side, incompatible in the bed they used to share. Miranda's chest rises and falls, her rapid heartbeat slowing down as her breathing gradually regulates itself. Beside her, Andrea rubs her face, but makes no move to leave the bed.

"I'm sorry," she says at last.

"For what?" Miranda questions dejectedly.

Andrea sighs so heavily the movement is felt on the mattress. "I don't know. Everything. The other day, the breakup. Maybe I shouldn't have come here. God," she moans, "we're the most dysfunctional broken-up couple in the world."

Miranda briefly closes her eyes before conceding, "We were a pretty dysfunctional couple to begin with."

"Is that what you think?" Andrea turns her head on the pillow, the high-pitched tone of her voice attesting to her genuine surprise. Her big eyes search Miranda's evasive ones.

"You don't?"

"I was happy," she objects. "Until I wasn't. But I wish I hadn't hurt you like I did," she adds on a remorseful whisper.

For the second time in as many days, Miranda feels the tingling behind her eyelids, her throat tightening. She swallows down the tears that want to erupt and frowns instead. "I thought you hated me," she notes deceptively casually.

"I did," Andrea agrees, then quickly shakes her head in amendment, a sad smile stretching her lips. "I didn't... not really. I thought I did, but I never really knew how to hate you." At last, Miranda turns to look at her, trying to keep her face expressionless while she attempts to gauge Andrea's thoughts from hers.

"But if I'd stayed, I would have started to," Andrea explains. "We would have started hating each other. And I never wanted that to happen," she whispers, shaking her head against the pillow. "We're not those people."

"And still you can't remember any of the good times," Miranda drawls quietly, doubting her claim of happiness. She remembers Andrea's yelling the night before, the tears and the accusations. Miranda felt her contempt as acutely as a knife to the heart--a thousand heart attacks would have hurt less. All along, she thought she resented Andrea, but now it's beginning to occur to her that the person she resents might be, after all, herself and her helplessness to fall out of love with a woman who keeps leaving her.

"There was this one morning," Andrea's soft voice draws her gently back into the moment, like a calm wave carrying her pliant body to shore. She's placed a hand between the pillow and her cheek and is smiling almost unconsciously, her gaze distant, lost in another place, another time. A memeory.

"It was, I don't know, maybe about a year before things started going downhill. There was nothing special about that particular morning--I can't even remember what day it was or what was happening in our lives at the time. I woke up, but you were still asleep, wearing that black nightgown with the lace on top." Her eyes sparkle mischievously; she's always liked that nightgown. "Your hair was all messy like it always got during the night, and the room was dark, but there was still some sun coming in through the curtains: it hit your face perfectly, like it had come in specifically for you.

"I just couldn't stop staring at you," she confesses. "I didn't wanna do anything else like brush my teeth or get coffee or even wake you up for... you know. I just wanted to keep looking at you--you were so beautiful. And... in that moment, while I lay there and watched you, I suddenly realized I was happy." At the revelation, her voice drops an octave, her smile, albeit tremulous, widening to reveal two perfect rows of white teeth. "Simple as that. It wasn't something I normally thought about, something one thinks about in their day-to-day life. You don't ask yourself if you're happy, or even content; you just live. But in that moment, I was happy. Just simple, pure, unadulterated happiness that I couldn't explain, I couldn't put it in words. I just felt it in every part of my body. I felt that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, living the life I was supposed to live.

"And it was..." she trails off. If Miranda listens closely, she thinks she can hear her voice break, but when she speaks again, it's steady and so sweet it's like a shot to her heart. Andrea's eyes, however, shine wetly. "It was just one of a thousand identical moments that I never paid attention to because I was always too busy doing, thinking, living, that I never stopped to notice that that was happiness. Right there. And it didn't matter, it didn't matter if I got another thousand moments like that or if it never happened again, because right then, I didn't want that moment to ever end."

Licking her lips, Miranda gulps. She doesn't think she could muster the vocal capacity to speak, the heavy, stinging weight sitting on her vocal chords ensuring that, and even if she could, her brain would not cooperate, incapable to forming a coherent thought, let alone a sentence. Instead, she rolls on her side, her chest filling with a hot, bright light, and she finds herself incapable of removing her gaze from Andrea's wide, earnest eyes.

"It wasn't all bad," Andrea whispers and smiles at her. That one, little smile seems to revive Miranda's damaged heart. "Not by a long shot."

She doesn't know how long they lie there, staring at each other, a moment not yet ruined by words or actions, but it's enough time for Miranda's equilibrium to return at least partly, for the mass in her throat to release enough so she can ask the question she now suspects she finally has the answer to: "Why did you come to the hospital?"

"What?" Andrea blinks.

"When they called you. I was fine, I was doing fine, they must have told you that. Why did you come?"

If possible, Andrea's dark eyes reach even deeper into Miranda's, into her soul, it seems, her mostly clothed body and everything within it bared naked to the one person who's always seemed to awaken her most vulnerable side. "Why do you think?" she murmurs. Miranda knows why. She does now. Maybe, somewhere she hasn't been able to access until now, she's known all along.

"Why did you never remove me as your emergency contact?" Andrea asks, because it's clear to both of them that Miranda didn't "forget." It was clear the day Andrea came into that hospital room and took Miranda's hand for the first time in three years, and Miranda must have known back then, on that same inaccessible level, that she couldn't allow herself to let go again.

She thinks back to that night: the pain, the fear, the dark hallway. The loneliness. And the first thought to penetrate her agonized mind: before her oblivious daughters, before her own mortality, before work or anything as trivial, Miranda wanted, needed Andrea there with her. "Why do you think?" she whispers.

She watches Andrea take a deep breath, catches the sadness in her eyes as she goes into her head once more, into another memory. "When I got the call... I was terrified. I thought I was gonna lose you, and I didn't even have you anymore. But there were so many things I still needed to say, so many moments we hadn't gotten to have. I can't remember any of them now. I'm just not ready for you to go yet."

Miranda wants to tell her that she's not going anywhere, not any time soon. That a little heart attack couldn't possibly shake Miranda Priestly. She wants to tell her that she has her for as long as she wants--there was never a time when Miranda wasn't utterly and exclusively hers. But instead of wasting any more words, she moves closer, placing a hand on Andrea's cheek as tenderly as if she were to evaporate at the slightest disturbance like a dandelion in the breeze. And when Andrea doesn't reject her, she lowers her head and touches her lips to hers.

This kiss is different. It's not hungry and frenzied, but so soft it tickles Miranda's lips and sends electricity coursing from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes. And when Andrea sighs against her and reciprocates, Miranda lets herself melt into the sensation, covering Andrea's receptive body with her own.

It doesn't feel like coming home. It feels like a new beginning.


	10. Love Isn't Enough

The intruding, blinding sunlight wakes Miranda up, sneaking in through the window and shining straight into her face, and her first thought in the foggy, disoriented consciousness she's just regaining is how could she have forgotten to draw the curtains before going to bed?

It's when she turns her head toward the nightstand that she catches the time on her alarm clock, and in consecutive order, four truths infiltrate her awareness: it's early afternoon; she's completely naked under the light blanket that covers her waist and one leg; Andrea and she, after three years apart, slept together, and the other side of her bed is empty, the sheets crumpled and the pillow cold.

* * *

She finds Andrea in the kitchen, seated at the head of the table with her elbow propped up, her chin in the palm of her hand. Whatever her gaze is directed at, Miranda doubts she's actually seeing anything, a blank, faraway look taking over her features.

"Shouldn't you be making lunch?" Miranda startles her from the doorway, her elbow slipping from the tabletop.

"Oh," she mutters and scrambles to her feet. "Right, of course."

Miranda meets her halfway to the fridge, halting her with a gentle hand on her arm. "I was joking."

"No, you-you're right." Andrea releases herself with an awkward smile and passes her on the way to her destination. "It's getting late. You took your morning pills, right?"

"Andrea," Miranda says and adds nothing else. She doesn't need to; Andrea doesn't need her to. With the fridge doors open, she stands still, the light from inside framing her with its aura. Her back is to Miranda, but she can see the tense muscles under the shirt sag in resignation. Then she slowly closes the doors, turning to Miranda, and her smile is gone.

"We just made things ten times more complicated," she sighs.

"Did we?" Miranda frowns. "I don't think it's complicated at all."

"How can you not?" Andrea breathes out incredulously. She leaves the fridge and heads back to the table, slumping into a chair. Tentatively, Miranda joins her. "What are we right now? I mean, this is so unhealthy on so many levels."

"I thought you wanted it, too," Miranda says neutrally, feeling her muscles become rigid.

"I did."

"So now you regret it?"

"No," Andrea is quick to protest, then bites her lip. "I don't know. I just... I think we should just go back to normal. You know, you go do your thing, I'll do mine, and we'll--"

"What? Pretend it never happened?" says Miranda, waiting for Andrea to call her out on her ridiculousness. Instead, looking almost pained, Andrea nods.

"Isn't it a little too late to pretend?" she challenges, and they're both aware that she's not just referring to the sex, that this whole thing is much, much bigger than just physicality. They've both said things that can't be taken back, admitted to feelings that had been pushed down for far too long. If Miranda, up until that morning, had had any doubts, she now knows for certain that it's not over, it never was, and just like her, Andrea never fell out of love either. And if Andrea had her own reasons to be unsure, she needn't question anymore that those feelings are reciprocated.

But what she's asking Miranda now, asking both of them, is to push them down again, suppress them instead of exploring what could be, what they gave up on so easily. Her whole life Miranda has suppressed and repressed. She's tired.

"I think it's for the best," Andrea whispers. "We're just gonna make everything worse."

"What if I don't want to pretend?" Miranda asks quietly, watching the pain on Andrea's face morph into near-anguish.

"Then I can't stay here."

From the kitchen window, bright afternoon light enters the room, bathing it in heat and invading their privacy. It's a reminder of the real world outside, functioning in its usual speed, unfazed. Miranda, in that moment, is filled with desire to hide from that world, relive those few blissful moments earlier when, in their own little bubble, nothing mattered but touches and noises and sensations. And the knowledge that there were no regrets.

* * *

But pretending it is--it's preferable, Miranda supposes, to the alternative--and after a quiet, uncomfortable lunch, they each go about their separate businesses in a house that suddenly feels bigger and emptier than it was that morning, the distance between rooms, and effectively each other, far grander and insurmountable. Miranda cloisters herself up in her study, allowing herself to be distracted and buried in work until a quiet, uncomfortable dinner. But for necessary exchanges, they don't interact. Pretending, it turns out, is more exhausting than confronting their problems. When exactly did their roles reverse?

Between her legs, she can still feel the reminder of Andrea's touch, feels it all over her skin, everywhere Andrea caressed or kissed. Her heart clenches at the memory of her eyes, so big and dark they threatened to consume Miranda whole. She knows Andrea is haunted by the same thoughts and images, can see it in every twitch and averted look when they're in the same room, the gaze that lingers too long, the barely noticeable breathlessness, the yearning for something she won't admit to wanting.

It is complicated. But it also isn't. The more Miranda thinks about it, it's the most right, the most natural thing to do: pick up right where they left off. After all, everything about Andrea and she has always felt natural. She doesn't believe in soul mates or "meant to be"s, but she's also convinced that there's no other trajectory her life was ever supposed to take. They got hit by a roadblock, and now a door has finally opened for them to fix what has been damaged.

Her heart attack, she muses incredulously, might end up being a blessing in disguise. After all, it brought Andrea back to her, and for something like that to happen, she's certain it would have had to take nothing short of a miracle.

That night, in a bed that still holds Andrea's dizzying scent, she lies awake, unable to make her rampant mind give up and rest.

"Andrea," she said at dinner, one word and one meaningful look that punctuated the protracted silence at the table.

"Are the shrimp okay?" Andrea wondered in a high-pitched tone, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Andrea."

"They're not too sour? I felt like I went a little overboard with the lemon."

"Andrea, stop!" Miranda demanded, startling her when she yanked the fork out of her hand, a prawn falling back onto the plate. "We need to talk."

"No, we don't," insisted Andrea.

Miranda frowned. "Since when do you sweep things under the carpet?"

"Since when are you so anxious to discuss everything?" she retorted, her face contorting in something that was fast becoming agony, much like earlier in the day. "I told you, what happened... it shouldn't have happened. _Please_ , can we please just forget about it?"

It's late when Miranda finally gives up any hope of succumbing to sleep, and donning a robe over her nightgown, she leaves her bedroom, pads softly along the dark hallway, leans against the banister as she carefully ascends the stairs. And without knocking, she quietly opens the door, closes it behind her, and stands at the entrance of the room.

Despite the blackness of night, she can still make out the body sitting up in bed, looking as awake and restless as Miranda feels. "I can't pretend nothing happened," she says into the silence.

From the bed, Andrea whispers, "Me neither."

Without further words, Miranda discards her robe on a nearby chair and, as she approaches the bed, Andrea's already holding the blanket up for her to slide inside. They seek each other's bodies out immediately, almost like an old reflex that resurges at the slightest trigger, Andrea rolling onto her side and pulling Miranda flush against her back--a perfect match. Resting her head on the same pillow Andrea occupies, Miranda sniffs in the scent of her shampoo, nuzzles her neck while Andrea grasps the hand draped over her hip and brings it up to press against her chest, where Miranda can feel the steady heartbeat thumping against their conjoined fingers. Feeling at peace at last, she closes her eyes and goes to sleep, holding Andrea.

* * *

**Day 21**

  
So of course when she wakes up in the morning, she's alone in the bed. The room is still dark, but she can feel the absence of a second body as keenly as if she were missing one of her own limbs.

Propping herself up against the headboard, she stretches toward the nightstand and flicks on a lamp, casting the space in a faint, golden glow that brings out every object's shadow. Rubbing a hand across her tired face, she sighs, and when she lets it drop back onto the sheets, the bathroom door opens and Andrea emerges.

She's still in her pajamas, but her hair is brushed and her face doesn't look as sleepy as Miranda has, over the course of years, come to recognize it in the mornings: no rosy cheeks or eyes swollen with fatigue, and Miranda wonders, if she got close enough, would she smell lavender and bergamot? "Hey." Andrea smiles gently and perches on the velvety bench at the foot of the bed.

"Are you going to keep doing this a lot?" Miranda questions, evoking a nearly inaudible chuckle from her.

"Sorry, I didn't wanna wake you." In lieu of a reply, Miranda scoots to the end of the bed, reaches her hand out, and freezes when Andrea says, "I think I should find a nurse or someone to replace me."

In a matter of seconds, Miranda's heart has dropped so far down her abdomen she can actually feel the hollowness in her chest. She can also feel the blood draining out of her face, her skin undoubtedly matching the color of Andrea's pajamas. Her body weakens, she feels faint. Andrea leaving, again.

"Is that really what you want?" she asks bitterly. "Or are you just scared to go after what you actually want?"

Head shaking, Andrea's posture sags. "I'm tired of drama, Miranda. I don't wanna be on this rollercoaster again."

"What rollercoaster?"

She gives Miranda a knowing look, as if asking her to reflect on a relationship whose ups and down they were both present to witness. "Come on. Just two days ago we were ripping each other to shreds like we do best; not twelve hours later we're in bed together. We're so bad at this."

"And you really preferred it when we were apart?" Miranda challenges dubiously. "Were you happy?"

"I wasn't miserable." Andrea shrugs. That might be good enough for her, but "not miserable" is not the standard by which Miranda wants to live. She's tried it; at the end of the day, it was miserable all the same. Can Andrea really ask her to relinquish true happiness after giving her a taste?

"We tried so many times," Andrea adds, looking imploringly at Miranda as though to make her see reason when what she's suggesting is the most unreasonable idea Miranda could ever come up with. "Our problems are still our problems. What's changed?"

"Three years," Miranda ventures. "Couples do that: separate and then get back together. We've had our break from each other, we changed, we grew. We can have a new perspective now."

"Which is?" Andrea asks, looking skeptical.

"We're not so angry anymore. We used to not be able to stand so much as looking at each other to the point where we could no longer be in the same room. Before yesterday, when was the last time we touched each other? Had a conversation that didn't blow up? Played cards?"

"So, what? We're calmer now? Our relationship is stronger than our problems?"

"You don't think so?"

"And what happens in a month or two or even a year? When the novelty wears off and all the reasons we couldn't be together come back? What then?"

"Then we don't give up," Miranda responds ardently, moving closer to the edge of the bed. "We work hard to make it work. That's what you do in a relationship; do you think it all comes easily? After so many years together? We'll do couples counseling if you want, we'll have regular date nights--"

"Miranda," Andrea interrupts her rambling with a hand atop hers, her skin smooth and warm and lending its warmth to Miranda's cold body, and Miranda instantly grips it between her fingers. There's a prolonged moment of silence where Andrea's eyes, her smile become sadder, and then she asks, "Do you want us to get back together because you want _us_... or because you're lonely?"

Miranda doesn't look away from her eyes, even as she slowly shakes her head, and for once, she lets her face show everything her extensive vocabulary won't divulge. She realizes in that moment that she's always had the answer to that question. "I can live with lonely. I've lived my whole life with lonely."

Andrea's smile lifts ever so slightly, but then she pulls away from Miranda's hold, pinning her hands between her knees. "I can't get hurt again," she admits. "I'm still getting over _this_ breakup--I don't think I could handle it again. And I don't wanna hurt you. Not ever."

"Do you love me?" Miranda whispers, but she can feel the fight slipping away from her, can feel Andrea slipping away from her. In the split moment between her question and Andrea's answer, she feels apprehension, uncertainty, feels unsteady as if she's just stepped off a rollercoaster indeed.

"I do," Andrea answers sincerely and Miranda's world rights itself back up. "I think I always will. But..."

"Love isn't always enough," Miranda finishes for her, her heart squeezing painfully at the admission, the realization.

"Yeah," Andrea whispers.

Time slows to a crawl. It could be seconds or minutes where their eyes remain in a lock, everything in their peripheral vision blurred into nonexistence. It's as though their very muscles can't bear to make the effort of moving away, and their hearts can't bear the notion.

"It wasn't all you," Miranda murmurs at last. Her voice is barely loud enough to disturb the silence of the room, but it seems to break the spell nonetheless, Andrea's eyes blinking. "I guess I figured if I blamed you, I wouldn't have to look at my own faults. I had a part in it, too. I drove you away."

"We just weren't right for each other. It happens," Andrea replies, almost placating.

"Do you wish we'd never tried in the first place?"

Her response is instanteneous. "No." She shakes her head. "I wouldn't give a single second up. The good and the bad."

At the culmination of a long sigh, Miranda asks, "So what now?"

"I guess I'll go home. But we should still--"

"What? Stay friends?" she guesses with a wry smile.

The irony in her question is unmistakable, but still Andrea's eyes glimmer with her grin. "I _would_ really like that."

"I won't force you to stay here. I'm not gonna... gag you and keep you in the basement." Miranda casts her gaze heavenward, and Andrea's ensuing giggle, wobbly as it is, is the sweetest sound in the morning hush. "I don't need a nurse."

"Maybe we should ask Dr. Sanghvi." Andrea winces.

"If I haven't fallen down the stairs by now, I think I'm safe."

Smiling, Andrea doesn't push. After a short pause, she notes, "This is a much more cordial breakup than our last one."

"I told you we've grown," Miranda comments and gulps. Next, she watches Andrea climb onto the bed and before long, they're hugging, clinging to each other in the quiet darkness, unwilling to let go just yet. For as long as she embraces her, Miranda thinks, Andrea won't leave. And Andrea seems to have the same thought because she tightens her hold.

* * *

Try as she might, Miranda can't concentrate on her work. She reviews the digital Book, conducts phone conversations, manages a video editorial meeting, and writes notes on an article, but all along her mind is on the woman on the next floor, currently packing her bags, evicting herself from the room she's occupied for the last three weeks.

They meet downstairs shortly before noon. Andrea hauls a suitcase down the stairs while carrying the strap of another bag on her shoulder, and the second Miranda gets a look at her face, it's obvious she's been crying. The sight of her reddened eyes and nose tugs at Miranda's heartstrings and soon her own eyes well up.

"I feel like I've seen this movie before." She chuckles humorlessly when Andrea stops by the front door, letting her bag drop to the floor.

She smiles indulgently and takes a breath. "There's chicken breasts marinating in the fridge. Coat them in bread crumbs when you wanna eat and bake them--don't fry." She stares Miranda down in warning. "Don't forget your meds, and your walks. And call me if you need anything. Literally anything."

"Anything?" Miranda quirks an eyebrow jokingly, and for just a second, the sparkle returns to Andrea's swollen eyes. "I'm sorry, too."

"Sometimes couples just don't work, no matter how hard you try." Andrea shrugs. "We just don't work."

"I wish we did."

"Me, too," she agrees and takes Miranda's hand, running her thumb tenderly over the back of it. When she drops her hand, Miranda can still feel the contact even as she helps her hoist the bag over her shoulder, opens the door for her, locks it behind her.

Suddenly, the house is deathly quiet. For the first time since that night, she's really, truly all alone. Bound to navigate a new life alone, with the little closure she got, the hint of what might have been. A new lifestyle awaits her, an active attempt to stay alive. The fear of the unknown is almost enough to paralyze, but there's nothing to do but move forward, go with it.

She wanders down the hall, passing by the Book's table. There are white crescent marks in the wood where her nails dug in and she smooths her palm over the surface, running it back and forth, lost in the memory when, not a minute later, she hears a noise behind her. Turning around, she approaches the source, vision closing in on the front door's handle, moving up and down of its own accord. And when the pushing finally ceases, a persistent knocking follows, prompting her to quicken her step.

It would be just like Andrea, she thinks as she turns the key in the lock, to make an exist with a heartfelt, tearful goodbye only to forget something in the house. But pulling the door open, her eyes widen when Andrea surges forward, making her take an unconscious step back.

"I was gonna make some stupid, big gesture and burst back in, but you already locked the door and now I feel like an idiot," she immediately launches into a rushed, winded speech, her breathlessness stealing Miranda's own oxygen from her lungs. Her cheeks are flushed, her face almost wild, as she goes on, "I'm standing there outside and it hits me that... I'm not gonna have dinner with you tonight. Or breakfast tomorrow morning, or the day after. I'm not gonna see you every day and I just..." she exhales so heavily Miranda can feel the warm gust of air on her face. "It's been less than a month and I already don't know how I managed it for three years, but not seeing you at all feels more unbearable than any of the alternatives."

In the face of Miranda's bewilderment, Andrea steps up to her, then into her personal space, her eyes dry of tears and wide with earnestness, her jaw set in determination. "I wanna try. I wanna do the hard work. I'm not giving up yet."

Stunned, Miranda can do nothing but stare. She stares, and stares some more. She stares until the rapid movement of Andrea's chest has calmed with her breathing, and when her words have finally registered, she purses her lips, but only to contain a grin. Then she lets herself smile fully, welcoming Andrea's bruising kiss with eagerness and joy that threaten to fill her heart until it can't take it anymore.


End file.
